Lucius was not born a monster. He was made into one.
Born into a family that valued power over love, he never knew a gentle touch, a kind word, or a moment of solace. His father, a tyrant draped in wealth and cruelty, saw him as nothing more than a tool, a successor molded from iron and blood. His mother, a woman who had long since accepted her fate, never spared him a second glance. In the grand halls of their estate, love was a language unspoken, and pain was the only inheritance.
As a child, Lucius sought affection in the smallest of places, a fleeting smile from a maid before she was punished for her kindness, a brief moment of warmth when the sun kissed his skin before he was dragged inside for another round of "lessons." But each time he reached out, he was met with rejection, with brutality, with a lesson carved into his skin: Love makes you weak. Wanting makes you vulnerable.
By the time he was fifteen, Lucius had learned. He had become the perfect son, cold, ruthless, obedient. He no longer cried when his father's cane lashed across his back. He no longer flinched when his mother walked past him as if he were nothing but air. He no longer wished for love. Instead, he learned to wield power, to command fear, to take what he wanted, consequences be damned.
But then came Ezra.
Ezra, with his fire, his defiance, his unwillingness to break despite being shattered again and again. Ezra, who looked at him like he was a man instead of a god. Ezra, who had the audacity to love and hate in equal measure.
Lucius became obsessed.
He did not want Ezra's love the way a man wanted a lover's affection. No, he wanted something more. He wanted Ezra to need him, to depend on him, to crave his presence so much that he could not function without it. He wanted to be the center of Ezra's world, the only thing he thought about, the only thing that mattered.
But Ezra was stubborn. He fought. He hated. He tried to escape. And that was unacceptable.
So Lucius did what he did best. He broke him. Again and again, he shattered Ezra's body, stripped away his freedom, burned away his hope. But no matter how much he hurt him, Ezra still clung to the last pieces of himself. And that infuriated Lucius more than anything.
Because love was not supposed to be strong.
Lucius had seen what love did—it destroyed, it weakened, it made people beg for mercy. He had watched his mother crumble under his father's cruelty, had seen men weep when the people they loved were taken from them. Love was supposed to be fragile. Love was supposed to be easy to break.
So why was Ezra still standing?
Why, despite everything, did Ezra still look at him with loathing instead of fear? Why did he refuse to surrender, to become the hollow shell that Lucius needed him to be?
It enraged him. It fascinated him. It terrified him.
Because if Ezra could still resist, if he could still hold onto himself despite everything Lucius had done, then maybe love wasn't weak after all. Maybe it was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something powerful.
Something Lucius would never truly understand.
And that made him desperate.
He could not let Ezra go, but he also could not let him win. If Ezra stopped loving him, stopped needing him, then Lucius would have nothing. And that was unacceptable.
So he would break him one last time. He would crush the final pieces of his spirit, burn away every last shred of hope, until there was nothing left but a hollow vessel that belonged to him and him alone.
Because Lucius was not born a monster.
But he had become one.
And monsters do not know how to let go.