Hurt Me Like You Mean It [BL]-Chapter 54: The scandal (3)

A heart attack.

While masturbating. Right after being threatened.

Was way too convenient.

Ansel didn’t believe for a second that it was natural.

Someone had framed Lance. This wasn’t a coincidence; it was a deliberate act.

And that thought made something cold coil in his chest.

Lance was his.

His alone to touch, to control, to humiliate if he chose.

No one else had the right to see him like that.

No one else had the right to ruin him.

The car rolled through iron gates and into the driveway of a massive villa surrounded by a well manicured garden.

Even as the engine cut off, Lance didn’t stir. Worse—he still hadn’t let go of Ansel’s hand.

Ansel hesitated for a moment, then leaned over and slipped an arm beneath Lance’s knees and back.

He carried him.

The front door opened immediately. A maid bowed deeply.

"Take this.." Ansel said, tossing Lance’s duffel bag toward her without breaking stride. "Put it in the room next to mine."

"Yes, sir."

Lance stirred as they reached the stairs, his eyes fluttering open.

It took a second for reality to sink in.

"...Ansel?" His voice cracked. Then he looked down. "Wait—are you carrying me?"

He nearly fainted, why heck was he in Ansel’s arms.

"You didn’t have to do that," he said quickly, flustered. "You could’ve just woken me up."

"I tried," Ansel replied calmly. "You wouldn’t wake up. And you wouldn’t let go of my hand."

Lance’s ears burned. "I—sorry. You can put me down now. I can walk."

Ansel only adjusted his grip and kept climbing.

"I’m not letting you walk," he said. "So just lean on me." He paused, then added, quieter, "I understand that you’re terrified. And what I said earlier... was insensitive."

Lance stilled.

"You may be grown," Ansel continued, "but I’m still older than you. I should’ve put myself in your shoes."

That was enough.

Lance’s eyes filled instantly. He buried his face into Ansel’s jacket, fingers clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him together.

"I was so scared," he whispered. "So... so scared."

"I know," Ansel said. "I’ll take care of it."

Lance’s arms slipped around Ansel’s neck, holding him close, desperate and unguarded.

"Will it kill you," he murmured, voice trembling, "if you treat me a little nicely?"

Ansel stopped walking.

"...Do you want me to be nice to you?" he asked slowly. "Do you want gentle kisses and warm touches?"

Lance froze, caught between hope and fear.

"I don’t know if it’s okay to ask," he said after a moment. "I just... want a little. I don’t deserve all of it."

Ansel let out a soft, unexpected chuckle.

"Why do you say that?"

Ansel paused at the top of the stairs, the question catching him off guard more than he expected.

"Why do you say that?" he repeated quietly.

Lance hesitated, fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of Ansel’s jacket like he was afraid the answer might make him pull away.

"Because... I’m not special," he said softly. "I’m replaceable. I know that. I don’t have power, or money, or leverage. I only have what you want from me."

Ansel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t stop walking, but his pace slowed.

"So I keep telling myself," Lance continued, voice unsteady, "that asking for more would be greedy. That if I ask for gentleness, you’ll think I’m crossing a line. That you’ll remind me where I stand."

They reached the bedroom. Ansel pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, setting Lance down carefully on the edge of the bed instead of letting him go all at once.

"You really think that’s how I see you?" Ansel asked.

Lance nodded, eyes glossy. "You treat me like it is."

For a moment, Ansel said nothing. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair, then exhaled slowly like he was forcing himself to confront something unpleasant.

"I don’t know how to be gentle.." he admitted. "So why don’t you tell me your version of gentleness.."

Lance looked up at him, surprised.

Lance swallowed, throat bobbing.

"My version?" he echoed softly.

Ansel nodded once. "Yeah..say it."

For a moment, Lance just stared at his hands in his lap. They were trembling again.

He hated that they were trembling. He hated how weak he felt—how exposed he was.

"...Don’t look at me like I’m a transaction," he said finally. "Don’t talk to me like I’m disposable."

Ansel didn’t interrupt him, he just silently listened to what Lance had to say.

"When you touch me.." Lance continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don’t want it to feel like you’re taking something. I want it to feel like you’re choosing me."

The words hung heavy in the air.

"And.." Lance added, almost embarrassed by how small the request sounded, "sometimes I just want you to ask if I’m okay. Even if you already know the answer."

Ansel felt something twist in his chest.

He hadn’t expected that.

He’d expected something unreasonable. Demanding. Something he could dismiss.

This wasn’t that.

Lance wasn’t like his casual flings, who was only with him for sex and money.

Lance wanted him for him, despite his rough edges.

"You think asking for that is ’too much’?" Ansel asked.

Lance let out a weak laugh. "For me? Yeah."

Ansel’s gaze dropped to Lance’s face—red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, lips pressed together like he was bracing for rejection.

For the first time, Ansel didn’t feel in control of the situation.

He sat down in front of Lance instead of towering over him. The mattress dipped slightly.

"That’s not greed..." he said. "That’s... basic right?"

Lance looked stunned.

"Then why does it feel like I’m begging?" he asked.

Because I taught you to feel that way, Ansel thought—but didn’t say.

Instead, he reached out slowly, deliberately, giving Lance time to pull away.

Lance didn’t.

Ansel’s fingers closed around Lance’s wrist.

He used to view Lance as weak and sex crazed.

But he now, understood just how strong Lance was.

"You’re not replaceable.." Ansel said. "And you’re not powerless. Someone went out of their way to destroy you. That means you mattered enough to be a target."