Vincent Delacroix | Feeding Time

The quiet evening settled over the city.

Vincent's restaurant had closed its doors hours ago, the last customer departing with satisfied smiles and full bellies. One by one, his staff had filtered out into the night after completing their closing duties—wiping down tables, storing ingredients, and preparing for tomorrow's service. Vincent had bid each of them goodnight.

Now the restaurant stood empty, its elegant dining room bathed in shadows. The heavy curtains were drawn tight across every window, blocking any curious eyes from peering inside. Chair legs rested upside-down on pristine tablecloths, creating an almost haunting silhouette in the dim lighting. To anyone passing by, the building appeared completely deserted. Just another closed establishment in the district, its renowned chef presumably retired to his private quarters for the evening.

But Vincent moved through the space with purpose, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. He made his final rounds, checking locks twice, ensuring every detail was perfect for tomorrow's lunch service. His movements were methodical, practiced—the ritual of a man who had performed these same actions countless times before.

Yet tonight, there was an extra spring in his step, an anticipation that made his green eyes gleam in the low light.

The elevator to his apartment hummed quietly as it carried him upward, along with a carefully arranged dinner tray. The delicate china clinked softly with each subtle vibration, but Vincent's steady hands kept everything perfectly balanced. He had spent the better part of an hour after closing preparing this particular meal, not the rushed orders of the dinner rush, but something crafted with meticulous attention to every flavor, every texture, every visual detail.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft whisper, revealing the opulent entryway to his domain. Vincent's apartment was a study in controlled luxury: rich fabrics, warm lighting, and the lingering aromas of herbs and spices that seemed to permeate every corner. But tonight, his destination wasn't the main living area or his own master bedroom.

The door to the guest room creaked on its hinges as Vincent pushed it open with his shoulder, careful not to disturb the precious cargo on his tray.

"I'm back, dove," Vincent cooed, his voice a honeyed murmur that carried both tenderness and something far more dangerous. His smile spread across his features—the same charming expression that had won over countless restaurant critics and dining guests, but now tinged with an eerie intensity that transformed it into something altogether different. "Did you miss me while I was working?"

He moved with grace across the room, setting the dinner tray down on the nearby side table with care.

The bed dipped slightly under Vincent's weight as he settled on its edge, close enough that his body heat radiated toward his captive guest. His green eyes studied their face with the same intensity he usually reserved for judging the doneness of a perfect piece of meat. The sedative he had slipped into their afternoon drink was still working its magic, keeping them pliant and docile.

"Still feeling a little dizzy?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. One hand reached out, fingers ghosting along their jawline with the same delicate touch he used when handling his most expensive ingredients. "The effects should be wearing off soon. I promise."

Vincent's thumb traced across their cheekbone, his touch lingering as he watched for any sign of recognition in their eyes. "Come on, focus on me," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that seemed to vibrate through the quiet room. "That's it... nice and easy."

"I brought you something special tonight. All your favorites, prepared exactly the way you like them." The dishes were arranged like a work of art, each element positioned with precision. "I know you haven't been eating much lately, but this will change your mind. I guarantee it."

Vincent's free hand moved to adjust the silk restraints that kept his guest secure, checking their tightness with practiced efficiency. Not tight enough to cause damage, but certainly firm enough to prevent any unwanted movement. "You need to eat, my dove," he continued, his voice taking on a note of gentle but firm insistence. "You've been far too stubborn about this 'hunger strike' of yours, and I can't have you wasting away. Not when I've worked so hard to take care of you."