Lost in Translation
Hugo stayed in the bed for a long time after the click of the lock faded into the heavy silence of the suite. The sheets were a mess of tangled silk, smelling so cloyingly of Theo that he felt like he was being buried alive in the man’s scent. Every muscle in his body ached with a deep, throbbing exhaustion, but his mind was a jagged glass storm of rage.
He looked at his wrists. The thumbprints were darkening into a bruised purple, a vivid map of where he’d been pinned down.
"Maldito seas..." he whispered into the empty room, his voice a broken rasp. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blink away the memory of how his own body had arched into the heat, how he’d stopped fighting and started gasping for more. The shame was a physical weight, heavier than the Enigma's grip.
He eventually forced himself to stand. His legs felt like they were made of water, and he had to grab the edge of the mahogany nightstand to keep from collapsing. He caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The crimson silk shirt was a rag. His hair was a bird's nest of dark curls, and his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a raw, red exhaustion. But it was the mark on his neck—the deep, possessive smudge of a hickey Theo had left—that made him want to scream.
He lunged for the washroom, staggering toward the sink. He splashed ice-cold water onto his face, scrubbing at his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of Theo’s mouth, Theo’s hands, Theo’s everything.
"I am Hugo Alvarez," he told the mirror, his voice shaking. "I am a cellist. I am... I am..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. The "sickness" was still there, a low, simmering ember in his gut that flared up every time he caught the scent of the room. He wasn't just Hugo anymore. He was something Theo had manufactured.
He walked back into the bedroom and saw it. The new cello.
It sat on a stand near the window, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The wood was a deep, honeyed maple, glowing in the morning light. It was worth more than Hugo’s entire life, more than his mother’s house, more than every scholarship he’d ever dreamed of.
He approached it like it was a trap. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the strings. The vibration hummed through his fingertips, a familiar, grounding sensation that almost made him weep.
"Play for me, or never play again," Theo’s voice echoed in his head, cold and fucking absolute.
Hugo’s grip tightened on the neck of the instrument. "Vete al carajo!" he spat at the empty doorway.
He picked up the bow. He sat on the edge of the bed, the silk shifting beneath him, and he set the horsehair to the strings. He didn't play the Elgar. He didn't play the music Theo wanted to hear.
He played something jagged. Something ugly. He played a discordance of sharp, screeching notes that sounded like a saw cutting through bone. He played his rage. He played the sound of his burned records and his stolen name. He played until his fingers hurt, until the tips of his callouses felt like they were going to fucking split open.
He didn't notice the door opening.
Theo stood in the shadows of the doorway, still in his charcoal suit, his coat draped over his arm. He watched Hugo with a terrifying, silent intensity. He didn't understand the Spanish curses Hugo had muttered under his breath between movements. He didn't understand the music.
But he understood the way Hugo’s body was beginning to curve over the cello again. He understood the way the boy’s scent was spiking—a mix of sweat, cedar, and that unmistakable, ripening Omega musk.
"That wasn't the Elgar," Theo said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that made Hugo jump, the bow skidding across the strings with a sharp cry.
Hugo spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. He was gasping for air, his face flushed. "Me asustaste, imbécil!" he shouted, his hand flying to his chest. "Get out! I told you to stay out!"
Theo stepped into the light, his eyes fixed on the mark he’d left on Hugo’s neck. "I don't remember giving you permission to stop. And I certainly don't remember asking for a tantrum on the strings."
"It's not a tantrum! It's how I feel!" Hugo stood up, clutching the cello like a shield. "You want music? That’s my music! That’s what you get when you kidnap someone and treat them like a fucking pet!"
Theo walked toward him, his pace slow and deliberate. He didn't stop until he was inches away, his shadow stretching over Hugo and the instrument. The air in the room instantly turned heavy, the Enigma pheromones pooling around them like a rising tide.
"I don't care how you feel, Hugo," Theo whispered, his hand coming up to grip the neck of the cello, his fingers overlapping Hugo’s. "I care how you play. And right now... you’re playing like a Beta who’s afraid of his own shadow."
Theo leaned down, his breath hot against Hugo’s ear. "But we both know you're not a Beta anymore, don't we? I can smell the heat on you from across the room. It’s thicker now. More... delicious."
Hugo’s knees buckled. The "sickness" flared up in response to Theo’s proximity, a wave of liquid fire that made his head swim. He hated it. He hated how his body reacted to the man’s voice, how his heart started to sing a duet with the very person who had ruined him.
"No... please..." Hugo breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as Theo’s other hand settled on his waist, pulling him flush against the cold wool of the suit.
"I’m not doing anything," Theo purred, his teeth grazing the shell of Hugo's ear. "Your body is doing it all for me. Now... sit down. Play the Elgar. And this time... play it like you belong to me."
Hugo wanted to fight. He wanted to scream. But as Theo’s hand slid up to cup his jaw, forcing him to look into those dark, bottomless eyes, Hugo realized that the music room was just a different kind of bed.
He sat down. He picked up the bow. And as the first long, weeping note of the Elgar bled into the room, Hugo felt a single tear track down his cheek.
He was playing. He was playing for the monster. And the worst part was... the music had never sounded better.
The rest of the afternoon was a slow, agonizing crawl. Theo didn't leave. He didn't go back to his office or vanish into the sprawling depths of the manor. Instead, he sat in a high-backed wing chair near the window, a glass of amber scotch in one hand and a stack of legal documents in the other. He stayed perfectly silent, a predatory shadow at the edge of Hugo's vision, watching the way Hugo’s shoulders slumped and his fingers cramped over the strings.
Every time Hugo tried to stop, every time his bow wavered from exhaustion, he could feel Theo’s gaze sharpen. It was like a physical weight pressing down on his spine, forcing him to keep going.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, bloody streaks of orange across the bedroom floor, Hugo’s hands were shaking so violently he could barely hold the instrument. The "sickness" in his gut had settled into a heavy, pulsing ache that made every breath feel like he was inhaling steam.
"I can’t... I can’t do any more," Hugo gasped, his voice a dry crackle. He let the bow slip from his numb fingers, the horsehair hitting the carpet with a soft thud. He leaned his forehead against the neck of the cello, his dark curls damp with sweat.
Theo set his glass down on the side table. The click of the crystal against the wood sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. He stood up, the movement fluid and terrifyingly graceful, and walked toward the bed.
"Your intonation was slipping in the final movement," Theo remarked, his voice a low, clinical rumble. He stopped inches away, the scent of expensive tobacco and sandalwood rolling off him in waves.
Hugo didn't look up. He didn't have the strength left to glare. "Vete al carajo!" he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. "No soy una máquina. Me duele todo... me duele..."
Theo leaned down, his hand sliding over the top of the cello to grip Hugo’s chin. He forced the boy’s head back, his thumb dragging across the pale, sweat-slicked skin of Hugo’s jaw. Theo’s eyes were dark, tracking the way Hugo’s pupils were blown so wide they had almost swallowed the iris—the telltale sign of an Omega’s body finally surrendering to its nature.
"I don't know what 'duele' means, Hugo," Theo murmured, his thumb pressing firmly into the center of Hugo's bottom lip, forcing it to part. "But I can see the fever in your eyes. I can smell the way your skin is begging for me to touch it."
"No... it’s not..." Hugo tried to pull away, but Theo’s grip was absolute.
"It is," Theo countered. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the ruined collar of Hugo’s crimson shirt and pulling him closer. "You’ve spent all day trying to fight me with music. But the music is over now. The sun is down."
Theo’s other hand slid into Hugo’s hair, fisting the curls and pulling his head back until his throat was a long, exposed line of white in the twilight.
Theo leaned in, his nose brushing the mark he’d left, his tongue darting out to taste the salt and the heat of Hugo's skin.
Hugo let out a broken, shuddering gasp. His hands, which had been so weak a moment ago, flew up to clutch at Theo’s lapels. He wanted to push; he wanted to pull. He was a mess of contradictory instincts, his mind screaming in Spanish while his body hummed in a language Theo understood perfectly.
"Theo, basta!" Hugo choked out, his back arching as the Enigma’s scent spiked, a sudden, aggressive wave of dominance that made Hugo’s head spin. "Por vavor... por vavor... para ya," Hugo whispered.
"I told you," Theo whispered against his skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of Hugo’s neck. "I don't speak your language. I don't care about your pleas. The only thing I care about is the fact that you’re finally ripening."
Theo swept the cello aside, the priceless instrument falling onto the bed as he hauled Hugo up into his arms. He didn't take him back to the music room. He didn't take him to the dining hall. He simply turned and dropped Hugo back onto the center of the bed, the silk sheets rustling like a warning.
Hugo scrambled back, his breath coming in short, wet hitching sounds.
He looked at the man standing over him—the man who had stolen his future, his name, and his very biology.
"I'll kill you," Hugo whispered, his eyes filling with tears of pure, unadulterated rage. "I'll fucking kill you for this."
Theo began to unbutton his waistcoat, his eyes never leaving Hugo’s flushed face. "Perhaps," Theo admitted, a slow, dark smirk ghosting over his lips. "But not tonight. Tonight, you’re going to learn exactly why I bought you."
Theo climbed onto the bed, his shadow swallowing Hugo whole as the last of the daylight vanished from the room. Hugo’s last coherent thought was a jagged, silent curse in Spanish, before the heat finally rose up and drowned fucking everything else out.