Chapter 26 Julian
JULIAN
Three days. Seventy-two hours of silence that grates against my nerves like sandpaper. I’ve sent texts. Made calls. Even had my assistant reach out formally. Nothing.
This isn’t how this should work. After claiming, prey remains accessible for the duration of the claim. It’s tradition. It’s expected. It’s the fucking point.
I straighten my tie as I approach his Gallery, noting the tasteful window display featuring abstract sculptures. Fury simmers beneath my composed exterior. No one walks away from Julian Frost, especially not after being claimed.
The bell chimes softly as I enter. The gallery is empty save for a young woman arranging brochures at the front desk.
“I need to see Elliot Chambers.”
She glances up, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Frost?”
“He’ll see me.”
“Mr. Chambers is quite busy today with—”
“Tell him Julian is here.”
Her hesitation speaks volumes. She’s been instructed to keep me out. I draw myself taller.
“Now.”
She disappears through a door behind her desk. Seconds stretch into minutes as I scan the artwork, but I’m too distracted to appreciate any of it. When the door reopens, it’s Elliot who emerges.
He looks terrible. Beautiful, but terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair not styled. A rumpled button-down and jeans have replaced his usual impeccable attire.
“Julian.” His voice is flat. Professional. “What can I do for you?”
“You know exactly why I’m here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Three days of silence. You’re in breach.”
“Am I?” Elliot crosses his arms. “Show me the contract I signed.”
“The Hunt has rules—”
“For prey who sign the contracts. I didn’t sign anything. I was a hunter like you.”
His defiance should infuriate me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me that I refuse to acknowledge.
“You were claimed publicly. Everyone saw.”
Elliot’s jaw tightens. “I was humiliated publicly. There’s a difference.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Is that what you think happened?”
“I think you made your position clear at your apartment.” His eyes meet mine, raw with hurt. “This wasn’t a relationship, remember? Just sexual exploration.”
I step closer, voice dropping. “You’re mine for a year. Those were the terms.”
“No.” Elliot doesn’t back away. “Those were terms you decided. I never agreed.”
I step closer to him, the familiar electricity crackling between us despite everything. But as I look into his eyes, I see something beyond the defiance—a deep hurt that stops me cold.
This isn’t just about the Hunt or the claiming. This is something more fundamental.
For the first time, I truly see him—not the art dealer with the carefully constructed mask, not the prey I conquered, but Elliot.
A man who spent so long hiding who he really is, unable to show his authentic self to anyone.
A man who finally took that terrifying leap, only to have me slam the door in his face.
Fuck.
The realization sends a cold spike through my chest. After giving himself so completely—something that must have taken immense courage after a lifetime of hiding—I reduced it to nothing but sex.
I claimed him publicly, dragged him out of his carefully constructed closet, then told him none of it mattered.
I run a hand through my hair, taking a step back. The usual calculated words I wield abandon me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology feeling foreign on my tongue. “What I said at the penthouse... it was cruel.”
Elliot’s expression shifts, surprise replacing some of the hurt. I rarely apologize—to anyone.
“I panicked,” I admit, the confession tasting strange. “When you said... what you said in the alley, I just—”
“Needed to establish boundaries?” Elliot supplies, his voice softer but still guarded.
“Needed to push you away before you could get too close.” The truth spills out before I can filter it. “It’s what I always do.”
I watch his face carefully, searching for any sign that it’s not too late to fix what I’ve broken. The gallery is silent around us, the space between us charged with possibility.
“You don’t understand what you did to me, Julian.” His voice cracks slightly. “My entire life, I’ve been hiding. Every single day, pretending to be someone I’m not. Dating women whom I felt nothing for. Building walls so high I couldn’t even see over them anymore.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
“Then you came along and saw through every defense I’d built.
You didn’t just see me—you forced me to see myself.
” His eyes glisten with unshed tears. “And after I finally let myself be seen, after I came out to my friends... You treated what we shared like it was nothing. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
The pain in his voice pierces straight through my armor like nothing I’ve ever felt before. In my world of emotional distance, this honesty leaves me defenseless.
I don’t plan what happens next. My legs give way as I drop to my knees before him.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ve never let anyone see me either. When you said those words in the alley—” I swallow hard. “I panicked because I was terrified. Please forgive me, Elliot.”
Shock registers on his face. Julian Frost, kneeling, begging. He reaches down and gently tugs me to my feet.
“I never thought I’d see the day when my king was on his knees,” he says, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
I cup his face in my hands and press my lips against his. Not to claim or possess but to connect. It’s sweet, tender—everything I’ve never allowed myself to be.
The gallery door slams open, the bell jangling violently.
“Elliot James Chambers!”
We break apart to face a well-dressed older woman; her face contorted with rage.
I instinctively step in front of Elliot, a protective gesture that surprises even me. The woman standing in the doorway resembles Elliot around the eyes, though hers burn with a disgust that makes my blood run cold.
“Mother,” Elliot says, his voice suddenly small. “I didn’t expect you to—”
“Clearly.” She cuts him off, taking in the gallery with a sweeping glance before her eyes lock onto me with laser focus. “So, this is what you’ve chosen? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“Mrs. Chambers,” I say, extending my hand. “Julian Frost. I’m—”
“I know exactly who you are.” She ignores my outstretched hand like it’s contaminated. “You’re the sickness that’s infected my son.”
A dangerous heat rises in my chest. I’ve dealt with bigots before—some of them at my own dinner table growing up—but something about the way she looks at Elliot makes me want to tear her apart.
“Mother, we talked about this on the phone. I’m gay. I’ve always been gay.” Elliot’s voice shakes but holds firm. “Julian didn’t make me this way.”
She laughs, a brittle, cruel sound. “Forty years of normalcy, and suddenly you’re... this?” She gestures between us as if we’re something rotten. “What would your father think if he were here to see you?”
Elliot flinches as if struck. I feel his hand grasp the back of my jacket, seeking an anchor.
“I drove into town to talk some sense into you,” she continues, opening her designer handbag. “I’ve made an appointment with Pastor Williams. He runs a program for men like you who want to be cured.”
She pulls out a glossy brochure and places it on the reception counter.
“You have a choice, Elliot. Come with me now and get help, or I’ll make sure everyone in your precious art world knows exactly what kind of establishment you’re running.”
A cold clarity settles over me as I stare at this woman—this pathetic, hateful creature who dares call herself Elliot’s mother. The protective instinct that flared moments ago crystallizes into something darker.
“Who exactly do you think you are?” My voice drops to a dangerous register that anyone who knows me would recognize as a warning.
I step forward, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Power moves are second nature to me.
“Let me be clear, Mrs. Chambers. Your son is under my protection now.” I straighten my already impeccable cuffs. “I don’t think you understand who you’re threatening.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she maintains her haughty expression. “I’m his mother—”
“You’re nothing.” I cut her off. “Mothers nurture. They protect. They love unconditionally. You’ve done none of those things.”
I pick up her conversion therapy brochure and tear it in half, then quarters, letting the pieces flutter to the floor between us.
“You speak of ruining Elliot’s reputation in the art world?” A cold smile spreads across my face. “I own half the galleries in this city. The Frost family has connections to every major museum board on the eastern seaboard.”
I move closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear me. “If you breathe one word against him, I will systematically dismantle everything you value. Your social standing, your country club memberships, your charity board positions—all gone with a single phone call.”
I feel Elliot’s presence behind me, his hand still clutching my jacket. I reach back without looking and take his hand in mine.
“Elliot isn’t coming with you. Not today. Not ever. He belongs with someone who sees his worth, not someone who’s spent years making him hate himself.”
Mrs. Chambers recoils as if I’ve slapped her, her perfectly manicured hand flying to her throat in indignation. The color drains from her face before rushing back in angry splotches.
“You think your name intimidates me?” she splutters, her voice rising an octave. “The Frost family may control the art world, but I doubt Catherine Frost would be pleased to learn about her son’s... proclivities.”
I can’t help but laugh—a genuine, amused sound that clearly wasn’t the reaction she was hoping for.
“My mother?” I tighten my grip on Elliot’s hand, drawing strength from his touch. “Mrs. Chambers, Catherine Frost has known I’m bisexual since I was sixteen.”
The shock on her face is almost comical. People like her always assume their narrow worldview is universal.
“I’m sexually fluid and make no apologies for my choices,” I continue, savoring how each word lands like a precise blow.
“Unlike you, my mother understands that who I sleep with doesn’t diminish my worth.
In fact,” I add, “My mother hosts the annual LGBTQ+ fundraiser for Frost Industries. Last year alone, we raised three million for youth shelters serving kids who’ve been abandoned by parents just like you. ”
Mrs. Chambers’ mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Her carefully constructed reality is crumbling, as if she can’t comprehend a world where someone of my status would proudly claim the identity she finds so abhorrent.
“That’s... that’s impossible,” she stammers, clutching her handbag like a shield. “No respectable family would—”
“My family’s respectability comes from our integrity, not our sexual preferences,” I cut her off. “Something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs. Chambers’ face contorts with fury, her perfectly lined lips twisting into a snarl of disgust. Before I can react, she lunges forward and spits directly at Elliot’s face. The glob of saliva lands on his cheek, sliding down toward his jaw.
White-hot rage erupts inside me. In my entire life, I’ve never experienced this level of protective fury. My vision narrows as I step between them.
“Get out.” My voice is deadly quiet. “Get the fuck out of this gallery before I physically throw you onto the street.”
She draws herself up. “How dare you speak to me—”
I slam my palm against the reception desk, the sound cracking through the gallery like a gunshot. Several art pieces shake on their pedestals.
“NOW!” I roar, abandoning all pretense of civilization. “You come near him again, and I will destroy everything you’ve ever built. That is not a threat—it’s a promise.”
Something in my eyes must convince her I’m not bluffing. She backs toward the door, still somehow maintaining her air of wounded superiority.
“You’ve made your choice, Elliot,” she says, her voice trembling with venom. “You’re no longer my son.”
The bell jingles as she slams the door behind her. The gallery falls into deafening silence.
I turn to find Elliot frozen in place, the spit still on his cheek. His eyes are unfocused, his breathing shallow. I grab a tissue from the desk and gently wipe his face clean.
Something breaks in him then. His knees buckle as a ragged sob tears from his throat. I catch him before he falls, pulling him against my chest as he collapses into me.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps between sobs. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
I guide us both to the floor, cradling him in my arms as years of pain pour out of him. His entire body shakes with the force of his grief.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” I murmur against his hair. “Not for her. Never for her.”
Holding him, I feel an unfamiliar protectiveness surge through me. The detached Julian Frost I’ve always been seems like a stranger compared to this version of me who wants to shield Elliot from every hurt.
The single-minded hatred in that woman’s eyes—his own mother—makes my blood boil. How many years has he spent trying to earn love from someone incapable of giving it?