Fever and Fury

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — high, ornate, and bathed in dim light that flickered slightly with the shadows of the room. Marco’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the ache in his head pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. His throat burned with each shallow breath, and when he coughed, it came rough and violent, raking through his chest.

He felt hot... too hot. Yet his skin shivered with the lingering cold from the rain that had soaked through him. Or had it been hours? He didn’t know. Time felt slippery, unreal.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright. His body trembled from the effort, his limbs heavy and foreign. Sweat clung to his temples, and the room tilted slightly as he staggered to his feet. He blinked hard, trying to focus.

Where the hell was he?

The room was too luxurious to be anything familiar. Dark wood panels, heavy drapes drawn half-closed, and the faint scent of smoke hanging in the air. It was silent. Almost too silent.

He moved toward the far end of the room, only to catch a glimpse of himself in a tall mirror by the wall.

Marco stopped.

His reflection stared back at him — pale skin flushed with fever, damp hair in disarray, and a set of silk pajamas that weren’t his. His shirt was gone. His chest, still faintly damp, was visible beneath the loose top. Confusion gave way to something colder, sharper.

Who had changed his clothes?

His jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, frustration mounting.

Then he heard it — a voice, smooth as silk, laced with mocking sweetness.

“Are you awake?”

Marco froze.

The voice came from behind, soft and teasing, as though meant to provoke him. Slowly, he turned.

There, standing with casual elegance near the doorway, was Alessandro De Luca.

Arms crossed, posture loose and relaxed, Alessandro looked as though he had all the time in the world. His tousled dark hair still wet from morning showering and the way the low light hit the sharp lines of his face — he looked like he belonged in a painting. Or a nightmare.

He was dressed in sleek, dark silk pajamas that hung off him in a deliberately lazy way, and the smirk on his lips made Marco’s blood boil.

“Who the hell are you?” Marco demanded, voice cracked from fever and fury. “And what am I doing here?”

Alessandro’s smirk deepened.

“Your new owner,” he said slowly. “I guess. You’re my property from today henceforth.”

The words hit Marco like a slap.

His fists clenched. “I’m not anyone’s property,” he spat. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Before Alessandro could reply, the door opened with a soft click.

Augustus De Luca stepped in. He looked from Alessandro to Marco, assessing the scene with a raised brow and a slow, cruel smile.

“Ah. I see you’re awake,” Augustus said smoothly. “Alessandro... meet me in my office when you’re done.”

Marco stiffened.

Alessandro De Luca.

His breath caught in his throat.

“You’re—” Marco started, but the words stuck.

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. “Finally catching up?” he said, voice dry.

As Augustus left, Marco felt the anger rising again, fueled by realization and fever.

“You drugged me,” he said. “Is that why my face looks like this?”

Alessandro sighed as if the conversation bored him.

“Are you concerned about your face or the hell you are in?" Alessandro smirked but Marco didn't reply. "I didn’t know the sedative would make your face red,” he said, waving it off. “And frankly... I don’t like owning something that isn’t perfect.”

The sheer arrogance of it lit Marco’s nerves on fire.

“I’m not yours,” he snapped. “I’ve heard a lot about Alessandro De Luca, but I didn’t know he was a coward. Kidnapping men—”

He didn’t get to finish.

In a blink, Alessandro’s expression twisted — no longer calm, no longer teasing. He stepped forward, fury rolling off him in thick waves. The air between them crackled.

“How dare you!?” Alessandro growled, his voice low and dangerous.

He was closing the distance now, fast and furious, his hand rising — not touching Marco, not yet, but hovering like a threat.

Marco backed away instinctively.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled.

But his body was failing him.

The fever surged again. His vision blurred, and the room tilted hard. His knees buckled.

And before he could crash to the floor —

Alessandro caught him.

Strong arms wrapped around him, halting his fall. Solid and warm, Alessandro held him against his chest, their skin brushing. Marco’s breath hitched, his strength gone.

For a moment — brief and silent — neither of them spoke.

Marco's fevered breath trembled against Alessandro's collarbone.

"Guess you've got a death wish," Alessandro muttered darkly but — he didn't let go.