Chapter 35 PRETTY LITTLE BAIT
By the time Eli realized where Julian was taking him, it was too late to protest.
Not that Julian would’ve cared.
The black car slid to a smooth stop in front of The Atlas, one of the most photographed luxury hotels in the city; red carpet rolled out, security lined up, paparazzi already buzzing like hornets at the scent of scandal.
Inside the car, Eli sat stiff, breathing shallow.
Julian sat beside him, legs spread, tie loosened just enough to look effortlessly powerful. He studied Eli with the slow patience of a man admiring something he owned. Something he was about to show off.
“Sit still,” Julian murmured.
Eli jumped slightly. “I—I’m not moving.”
Julian’s eyes lowered to Eli’s mouth.
“You will be.”
Before Eli could ask what that meant, Julian reached forward and slipped a hand under Eli’s jaw, tilting his face up.
“Open,” Julian said softly.
Eli’s heart lurched. “Wait—Julian—”
But Julian’s thumb pressed against Eli’s lower lip, urging it down. Eli obeyed out of instinct, out of fear, out of… whatever grip Julian had over him that he couldn’t break.
Julian leaned in.
Not for a kiss.
For a bite.
His teeth sank into Eli’s bottom lip sharp enough that Eli gasped, soft enough not to draw blood. The sting bloomed instantly, heat spreading across Eli’s mouth.
Then another bite, on the corner. Then his teeth grazed down Eli’s neck, finding the thin veil of skin over his throat.
Eli trembled.
“Julian—stop—someone will see—”
“That’s the point.”
Julian dragged his mouth lower, sucking a bruise into the pale skin just above the collarbone; slowly, and deliberately marking him like territory.
Eli grabbed the seat for balance, pulling a shaky breath between his teeth.
“Look at you,” Julian murmured against his skin. “Already trembling, and we haven’t even stepped outside. You seem to like that, you'd like it more in bed.”
Eli wanted to push him away.
He didn’t.
He never did.
Julian pulled back and inspected the damage. Satisfied.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now the outfit will make sense.”
Eli flushed painfully.
The outfit.
Julian had thrown it onto the bed thirty minutes ago and said, “Wear it.”
And Eli… well, arguing never worked.
It wasn’t clothes.
It was barely fabric.
A fitted black shirt cut low enough to expose the dip of his collarbones and the newly formed bruises. Transparent sleeves. A harness-like strap beneath the shirt that outlined his chest. Skin-tight pants that left nothing to imagination.
Julian’s design.
Julian’s message.
Julian’s ownership.
Eli didn’t want to be seen like this.
Not by the public.
Not by cameras.
Not by the entire fucking world.
“Why?” Eli whispered, voice shaking as he touched his bruised lip. “Why are you doing this?”
Julian’s answer was simple, quiet, terrifying in its certainty:
“Because Henry needs to see how well his son in-law is treating his son.”
Before Eli could respond, Julian opened the car door.
The world exploded.
Flashlights.
Shouting.
Camera shutters snapping.
A roar of voices.
Julian stepped out first, tall and cold as marble.
Then he turned and extended a hand.
“Eli.”
A command.
A leash.
Eli hesitated only a moment before placing his hand in Julian’s. The moment he emerged from the car, a tidal wave of noise crashed over him.
“Is that Julian’s spouse?”
“Why is he dressed like that?”
“Oh my god—look at his neck—zoom in, zoom in!”
“Sir! Look here!”
“Julian! JULIAN!”
“Mr. Throne.”
Julian’s hand clamped around Eli’s waist, pulling him tight, almost shielding him; but not really. It was more like displaying him.
Like dragging a prize across a stage.
Eli could feel the cameras on him… on every exposed piece of skin, on every bruise, on his swollen lip.
He tried to pull his arm free. “Julian, please—”
“Don’t start,” Julian muttered without looking at him.
They moved slowly down the carpet, security forming a loose barrier but not enough to stop the swarm of paparazzi.
That was intentional.
Julian wanted this.
Julian wanted them to see Eli like this.
One reporter shoved forward.
“Julian! Your spouse looks distressed. Is he consenting to… whatever this is?”
Eli’s stomach bottomed out.
Julian stopped walking.
Every camera shifted.
Every microphone extended.
Julian tilted his head, expression calm to an almost bored look.
But his grip on Eli tightened.
“Of course he consents,” Julian said smoothly. “He’s married to me.”
“But the bruises—”
Julian smirked slightly. “If I were abusing him, trust me— he’d still beg for more.” He's basically saying ‘he's my plaything and I do whatever I want with him but don't worry he loves it.’
A shockwave ran through the reporters.
Eli’s heart crashed against his ribs.
His breath caught.
Julian leaned down and whispered, for Eli alone:
“Don’t shake. They’ll think I’m starving you.”
Then he kissed Eli’s temple, slow and possessive, for the cameras.
More shouting.
More flashes.
Eli felt sick.
Exposed.
Burning with humiliation so intense he thought he’d melt.
Another reporter yelled:
“Eli! Do you love Julian? Are you happy in this marriage?”
Before Eli could answer, Julian cut in:
“He’s very happy.”
The cameras snapped so violently the air felt electric.
Julian didn’t give Eli a chance to speak.
Didn’t let him step away.
Didn’t let him breathe.
He dragged Eli forward, his arm unbreakable steel around him, guiding him into the hotel where the charity gala was being held.
Once inside the lobby, finally away from flashing lights, Eli jerked out of Julian’s hold.
“What the hell was that?” Eli’s voice cracked. “You humiliated me—”
Julian grabbed his chin again, but this time the touch was colder. Harder.
“I warned you,” Julian said softly. “You’re a bait. You’re a leverage. And you’re mine. That means the world sees what I want them to see.”
Eli’s eyes burned. “People think you’re hurting me. How's that a good look for you?”
Julian brushed his thumb over Eli’s lip, pressing lightly on the bite mark he’d left. “I am.”
Eli sucked in a breath.
“And I’ll do worse if it brings Henry out of hiding.”
Eli felt something collapse inside him.
“But why me?” he whispered. “Why does it have to be me?”
Julian didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Because right then, one of Julian’s men rushed into the lobby.
“Boss,” he said breathlessly. “We just got word— Henry Winslow made his first move.”
Julian straightened.
Eli’s blood turned to ice.
“What move?” Julian asked.
“A bomb in your warehouse,” the man said. “Two dead. Three injured.”
Eli’s vision swayed but Julian didn't seem bothered.
Julian’s face didn’t change.
But his voice did.
It dropped, darkened, and solidified.
“Good,” Julian said. “He took the bait.”
Then his hand found Eli’s waist again, tightly.
“Now,” Julian murmured, “let’s see how far he’s willing to go.”