Chapter 6. Knox
"Come," I said. The effects of the command on Florian were visible: a flicker of confusion, then the microsecond of hesitation as he thought whether it was safe to obey. He rose from the sofa, still clutching the envelope to his chest.
I extended a hand, half-expecting him to balk, but he relented, palm up, fingers folding softly into mine. His skin was cold. He was so small I could have lifted him easily, but the ritual of walking him through my world, with him choosing to follow, mattered more.
I led him toward the rear of the house, bypassing the formal dining room and the dark corridor that led to the bedrooms. We stopped at a wall of sliding glass doors.
I pushed one aside and the night air washed over us, carrying the bite of cold from autumn.
But beneath the chill, there was warmth, a humid, chlorinated heat rising from the infinity pool that stretched out toward the city.
"Sit," I instructed, nodding toward the pool's edge.
Florian hesitated for only a second before shucking off his sneakers and rolling up the cuffs of his jeans. He sat on the smooth stone, lowering his legs into the water. A sigh escaped him as the warmth enveloped his calves.
“Wow,” he let out.
I moved to the wet bar tucked in the patio, retrieving a bottle of Sancerre I had left to chill earlier.
The cork gave way with a soft pop. I poured two glasses and joined him at the edge, handing him a glass before settling down beside him, removing my shoes and socks, rolling up my own pants.
The water was hot, a pleasurable contrast to the cool breeze.
Below us, the city was shining like little stars.
Florian took a sip of the wine, his eyes fluttering shut. "This is... really good. I usually drink whatever comes in a box."
I smiled, the corners of my eyes crinkling. "Boxed wine. Of course." I said, taking a drink of my own. The wine was crisp, acidic.
We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the gentle lap of water against the tiles and the distant hum of traffic. Florian seemed better, less anxious. He swung his feet gently in the water, creating ripples.
"Would you like to swim?” I asked.
He shook his head, the confession parting his lips. “I don't know how, I never had classes or anything,” he murmured. It was such a simple comment that came with a raw confession: nobody taught me this basic survival skill. It made something primal inside of me shift.
I could teach him. If he allowed me.
He looked at me then, his expression shifting. The vulnerability was still there, but the wine had loosened something in him. He turned his body toward me, shifting his hip on the stone until his knee brushed against my thigh. It was a calculated move, clumsy but intentional.
"I feel better now," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, aiming for seductive but landing somewhere near desperate. "The panic... it's gone. I could... I want to please you now. I can still do what you paid for."
He leaned in, his hand moved, wet fingers reaching out to graze the fabric of my trousers, hovering dangerously close to my groin.
It was cute. And sad, desperate.
"I want to," he insisted, his eyes searching mine for approval. "I can be good."
I caught his wrist before he could make contact. My grip was firm, halting his advance instantly. I didn't squeeze, but I didn't let go either.
"No, boy."
He frowned, a flash of hurt crossing his face. "Why? I'm offering. I'm not scared anymore. Look at me, I'm ready."
He tried to pull his wrist free, not to retreat, but to continue his pursuit.
He was trying to buy his worth, to prove he wasn't just a charity case who cried on the sofa.
He thought his value lay in his utility, in the use of his body.
The realization made a dark anger coil in my gut, not at him, but at the world that had taught him this.
I knew the boys I hired could believe something similar, but, at least, most of them enjoyed what they did, and they did it well and often. It was their profession and career. Florian did not want to do any of this, it was evident.
I shifted, releasing his wrist and placing my hand heavy on the back of his neck. I pressed down, pinning him to the spot, using the weight of my arm to ground him. He went completely still.
"I said no."
The command cracked like a whip. Florian flinched, his mouth snapping shut. He looked a little flustered, embarrassed.
Beautiful.
"You are trying to balance a ledger that only exists in your head. You think you owe me your body because I showed you kindness. That is not how this works. Not in my house."
His lip trembled, the bratty defiance trying one last time. "But I…"
I squeezed the nape of his neck, just enough to compress the muscle, a warning pressure. "Do not interrupt me."
He went still. His eyes lowered, the fight draining out of him.
"Here is what is going to happen," I said, my hand still on his nape. "We are going to finish this wine. Then we are going to go inside, and I will make something simple for dinner. You will eat everything on your plate. After that, you will take a shower. Hot. As long as you like."
I paused, waiting until he looked up at me again, his blue eyes wide and waiting.
"And then," I continued, "we will go to bed. You will sleep in my bed, beside me. We will not have sex. I will not touch you, and you will certainly not touch me. We will sleep. That is the scene for tonight. Do you understand?"
The tension that had been holding him upright, the frantic need to perform, to please, to pay his debts, severed. He slumped under my hand, his posture collapsing into something soft and yielding. He looked younger than ever, stripped of the burden of choice.
"Yes, sir," he breathed.
The words were quiet, but solid. There was no hesitation, no questioning. Just the pure, clean relief of a boy who had finally been given permission to stop fighting.
"Good," I said, relaxing my grip on his nape, letting my hand slide down. "Now, drink your wine. It's getting cold here."
He lifted the glass to his lips, his hand steady now, and did exactly as he was told.
We then went from the pool to the kitchen. I slid the glass door shut, locking out the night, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft squeak of Florian’s sneakers on the polished slate floor.
He looked smaller in here somehow. "Sit," I said, gesturing to the high-backed leather barstools lining the island.
Florian climbed up, his movements stiff, wary. He hooked his heels on the bottom rung, wrapping his arms around himself as if the temperature had dropped. He was eyeing the kitchen with a mix suspicion and awe.
"Do you actually cook in here?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly against the stone surfaces. "Or is this all just for show? You know, like those showroom kitchens where the oven is made of cardboard."
"I cook," I replied simply, rolling up my sleeves further, past my elbows. I moved to the sink to wash my hands, the water running hot and scalding over my skin. "Though I admit, I rarely have an audience."
"Bet you usually have a private chef," he muttered. "Some guy named Pierre who makes foam out of peas."
I dried my hands on a linen towel and turned to face him, leaning back against the sink. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. "I dismissed Pierre years ago. Now, it's just me and the groceries."
Florian snorted.
I set to work. Carbonara appeared simple: pasta, egg, cheese, pork, pepper, but it required timing.
I retrieved a slab of pancetta from the refrigerator. Florian watched as I began to slice the cured pork into thick, uniform lardons.
"You hold that knife like you've killed someone," he observed, tilting his head. His eyes were glued to my hands.
"I’m just precise," I said without looking up. "It's respect for the ingredient. If I'm going to consume something, I owe it to prepare it correctly."
"Right. I barely know you and that’s the most ‘you’ thing you’ve said so far.
Honoring the fallen swine, I see." He rolled his eyes, but he leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms on the cool marble.
I tried to hide my smirk again. "So, what are we making?
Or am I not allowed to know? Is it a surprise? "
"Spaghetti Carbonara," I announced, sweeping the pancetta into a cold cast-iron skillet. I carried it to the range and ignited the burner, keeping the flame low. "Real carbonara. No cream. No peas."
"Oh, I see. Fancy mac and cheese," he drawled. I tried not to laugh, but I could see that he saw my lips tugging up.
I arched an eyebrow at him. "Keep being a little brat, and you'll find yourself having to deal with the consequences," I said dryly, but it was all banter, and he smirked because of it, no longer scared. He looked adorable with that smile.
The fat began to render, a slow hiss filling the quiet kitchen. The scent of curing salts and pork fat began to bloom. I could see Florian’s nostrils flare. He was hungry. The kind of hungry that wasn't just about an empty stomach; it was bone-deep.
"Why do you know how to do this?" Florian asked suddenly, the snark receding for a moment. He was watching me whisk the yolks into the cheese. "You're a CEO, or something, and pretty filthy rich. Shouldn't you be... I don't know, buying stocks?"
"I eat three times a day, Florian. Relying on others for basic survival needs creates a vulnerability I don't care for.
" I added a copious amount of freshly cracked black pepper to the egg mixture.
"Besides, there is order in cooking. Every ingredient has its place and preparation methods. It’s nice. It soothes me."
"Control freak," he whispered, but there was no venom in it. It sounded almost like a compliment.
"Absolutely," I agreed.
The water reached a rolling boil. I dropped the spaghetti in. The pancetta was crisp now, swimming in its own golden rendered fat. I killed the heat and finished preparing the dish.
"Whoa," Florian breathed. The scent of cheese and pepper filled the air.
I plated two portions, twisting the pasta into neat towers, and set a bowl in front of him. He stared at it as if it were a trap.
"Eat," I commanded, grabbing a fork and a bottle of sparkling water.
“I’m so fucking hungry I can’t pretend anymore to be polite, is that alright?” he asked before attacking it. I chuckled again.
“It’s what I prefer. I told you: I love honesty. Go for it, boy,” I said. He picked up his fork, twirled a massive nest of noodles, and shoved it into his mouth. His eyes widened. He chewed, swallowed, and immediately went in for a second bite, barely breathing in between.
"Slow down," I said gently, finding it amusing, and taking a seat beside him. "It's not going anywhere."
"It's good," he said around a mouthful, a drop of sauce catching on his lower lip. He licked it away with a quick flick of his tongue. "Like, really good. Fucking hell."
"Language," I corrected automatically, though I didn't stop eating.
"Sorry. It's really good... sir." He flashed me a grin, half-cheeky, half-apologetic. The brat was peeking out again, but it felt safer now. It warmed my heart to see his growing confidence.
We ate in a comfortable silence, except for the sounds of him basically devouring my food. I watched him eat. There was something profoundly intimate about feeding him. It was primal. I provided, he consumed, and he loved it. A lot.
"So," Florian said, scraping the bottom of his bowl. "Is this part of the package? Gourmet meals? Or are you fattening me up for something? And can I have seconds?"
"I take care of what is mine," I said, the words slipping out. I saw him pause, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. "For the duration of our arrangement, your well-being is my responsibility. That includes proper nutrition. And, yes, you may have seconds. And thirds."
Florian looked down at his empty bowl, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "You talk like I'm a stray dog you found in the rain."
I reached out, pouring more sparkling water into his glass and picking his plate up to serve him some more. "You were wet, shivering, and hungry. The comparison isn't entirely without merit."
"I bite," he warned, looking up at me through his lashes. His blue eyes were challenging, but the fear that had been there earlier was gone, replaced by a testing playfulness. I put the plate in front of him again, refilled, and he bounced in place like an excited puppy. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. That boy couldn’t lie or deceive his intentions even if he tried very hard.
"I count on you trying. And failing," I replied, meeting his gaze until he looked away, flustered.
He ate with the same ferocity as before and pushed his empty bowl away, leaning back on the stool with a contented sigh. His stomach was full, his body was warm, and he was safe behind my gates. That thought satisfied me more than sex alone ever could.
"Thank you," he mumbled, refusing to look at me. "For the food. Even if you are a control freak."
"You're welcome, brat," I said, standing up to clear the plates. "Now, up. You smell like the inside of a convenience store, and my sheets are Egyptian cotton. We have standards to maintain."