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The Velvet Noose

The transition from the chemically induced void to reality was a slow, agonizing crawl through shards of glass. For Marc, consciousness didn't arrive with the sun; it arrived with the smell of expensive cologne and the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady thrum of a heart that wasn't his own.

He didn't open his eyes immediately. He couldn't. His body felt like a heavy, leaden thing, anchored to the mattress by the cast on his arm and the dull, throbbing ache in his leg. Memory came back in jagged flashes: the hiss of gas in Le Mans, the cold floor of the glass cage, the blinding lights of the auction stage, and the silhouette of the man who had bought him.

One hundred million.

The number echoed in his mind, a grotesque valuation of his soul.

"I know you’re awake, Marc. Your heart rate spiked the moment you processed the room."

The voice was unmistakable. It was deep, melodic, and carried that familiar Italian lilt that had haunted Marc’s nightmares and fueled his ambitions for over a decade. Marc forced his eyelids open. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of late morning. It was a beautiful room—vaulted ceilings, silk wallpaper, and windows that looked out over rolling green hills. It was a palace. It was a prison.

Valentino Rossi was sitting in the same armchair he had promised to occupy. He looked impeccable, a stark contrast to the broken man lying in the bed. He was holding a tablet, but his eyes were fixed entirely on Marc.

"Where is Alex?" Marc’s voice was a pathetic rasp, his throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.

Valentino gestured vaguely toward the other side of the massive bed. Marc shifted painfully, his breath catching as his injured leg protested the movement. There, curled into a tight ball under a separate duvet, was Alex. He was still asleep, his face pale but peaceful. Beside him, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back against the headboard, was Luca Marini. Luca was watching Alex with an intensity that made Marc’s skin crawl—a look of pure, unadulterated possession.

"He’s safe," Valentino said, his voice softening just a fraction. "Luca hasn't left his side. My brother is… quite taken with yours. It seems the Marquez brothers have a habit of disrupting the peace of the Rossi household, even when they are unconscious."

Marc tried to push himself up, but his good arm gave out, and he collapsed back onto the pillows with a muffled groan.

"Don't try to move," Valentino commanded, rising from his chair. He walked to the bedside, his presence looming large and suffocating. "You had a major surgery less than forty-eight hours ago, followed by a kidnapping and a cocktail of black-market sedatives. You are lucky to be breathing, let alone sitting up."

"Why?" Marc hissed, his eyes watering from the pain. "Why did you do it? To humiliate me? To finally own the one thing you couldn't beat on the track?"

Valentino reached out. Marc flinched, expecting a blow or a mocking touch, but Valentino merely adjusted the pillow behind Marc’s head with surprising gentleness. Then, his hand migrated to Marc’s jaw, his thumb tracing the line of his stubble-covered chin.

"Humiliation is a byproduct, perhaps," Valentino mused, his blue eyes searching Marc’s. "But I didn't spend a hundred million euros for a trophy to put in a cabinet, Marc. I spent it because the thought of anyone else touching you—of some faceless Alpha breaking your spirit before I was finished with you—was intolerable."

"I'm not your toy, Vale," Marc spat, though the effect was ruined by a fit of coughing.

Valentino waited for the coughing to subside, then held a glass of water to Marc’s lips. Marc wanted to refuse, but his thirst was a physical agony. He drank, hating himself for the way he leaned into Valentino’s support.

"You are whatever I say you are," Valentino said calmly once the glass was empty. "The world thinks you are dead or missing. Your contracts are being liquidated as we speak. To the FIM, to Honda, to the fans… Marc Marquez is a tragic mystery. But here? Here, you are mine. You will eat what I give you, you will take the medicine I prescribe, and when you are healed, you will learn what it means to be an Omega under my protection."

On the other side of the bed, Alex stirred. His eyes flew open, darting around the room in a blind panic until they landed on Marc.

"Marc!" Alex scrambled toward his brother, ignoring Luca’s hand on his shoulder. He grabbed Marc’s hand, his fingers trembling. "Marc, are you okay? Does it hurt?"

"I'm okay, Alex," Marc lied, squeezing his brother’s hand back as hard as he could. "I'm okay. We’re… we’re in Italy."

Alex looked up at Luca, then at Valentino. The terror from the auction was still fresh in his gaze. "We want to go home. Please. We can pay you back. The prize money, the sponsorships—we’ll give you everything."

Luca let out a low, breathy laugh, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind Alex’s ear. Alex shivered at the contact but didn't pull away. He was too tired, too broken. "You don't understand, little Marquez. There is no 'paying back.' You weren't a loan. You were a purchase. Do you think we’d let you walk back to a world that put you on a stage for the highest bidder? You’d be snatched up before you reached the airport."

"He’s right," Valentino added, his gaze returning to Marc. "The people who organized that auction don't like to lose. If I let you go, you are dead men. Or worse, you are back in that cage. Here, you have walls. You have guards. You have us."

"We have a cage with better wallpaper," Marc countered, his old fire flickering in his eyes.

Valentino leaned down, his face inches from Marc’s. The Alpha’s scent—sandalwood, burnt rubber, and something dark and predatory—flooded Marc’s senses, triggering an instinctive, submissive shiver he couldn't suppress.

"It’s a very expensive cage, Piccolo," Valentino whispered. "And I suggest you get used to the bars. Because I am never letting you go."

The door to the room opened, and a nurse entered carrying a tray of medical supplies. Behind her stood two large men in suits—security, Marc realized. The reality of their situation was settling in like a cold frost. They were trapped in the heart of the VR46 empire, guarded by the very man who had spent a lifetime trying to outrun them.

"Luca, take Alex to the dining room," Valentino ordered, not taking his eyes off Marc. "He needs to eat something that isn't hospital broth."

"No," Alex cried, clutching Marc’s arm. "I’m not leaving him!"

"Alex, go," Marc said softly. He saw the way Luca was looking at his brother—not with cruelty, but with a terrifying, hungry sort of affection. If Alex stayed here, he’d only have to watch Marc be dismantled by Valentino. "Eat. Get your strength back. I’ll be here."

Luca stood up and gently but firmly hoisted Alex off the bed. Alex struggled for a moment, but his body was too weak. Luca tucked Alex under his arm, his hand resting possessively on Alex’s hip.

"Come on, Alex," Luca murmured. "I had the chef make the pasta you like. You need to be strong if you’re going to look after your brother."

Alex looked back at Marc one last time, his eyes swimming with tears, before Luca led him out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving Marc alone with Valentino and the nurse.

The nurse moved to the IV stand, checking the bags. Valentino stood back, watching the process with the clinical detachment of a man inspecting his property.

"The doctor says your arm will require another surgery in six months to remove the plates," Valentino said conversationally, as if they were discussing a bike setup. "I’ve already booked the best specialist in Milan. He’ll come here. You won't have to leave the grounds."

"I want to see my mother," Marc said, his voice trembling. "She must be worried sick. Please, Vale. Just let me call her."

Valentino’s expression didn't change. He walked over to the window and pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut, plunging the room into a dim, artificial twilight.

"Your family has been told you are in a secure coma following a post-surgical complication," Valentino said. "They are being looked after. But you will not call them. Not until I am sure where your loyalties lie."

"My loyalties?" Marc laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "You kidnapped us! You bought us like cattle!"

"I saved you from a fate you cannot even imagine," Valentino snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. He crossed the room in two strides, looming over the bed. "I saw the look in the eyes of the men in that front row, Marc. They didn't want the 'King of Cervera.' They wanted to see how long it would take to make an eight-time world champion beg for mercy. I am the only reason you aren't in a basement in Moscow or Dubai right now."

Marc looked away, his jaw tight. He knew Valentino was right, and that was the bitterest pill to swallow. The world of the auction was a shadow world, one that didn't follow the rules of the paddock.

"So what now?" Marc asked. "You keep us here until we rot? Until we forget how to ride?"

Valentino sat back down in the armchair, crossing his legs. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"No one is going to rot, Marc. You are going to heal. You are going to learn how to be an Omega who knows his place. And maybe, if you are very good, I’ll let you ride around the ranch. On a small bike. Under my supervision."

The thought of being restricted to a training bike on Valentino’s terms was a fresh insult, but Marc was too exhausted to fight. The nurse finished her work and left the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

"I hate you," Marc whispered, his eyes closing as the fresh dose of painkillers began to pull him under.

"I know," Valentino replied, his voice sounding oddly satisfied. "It’s the only thing about you that hasn't changed. And I find I rather enjoy it. Hate is such a passionate emotion, Marc. It’s almost as good as love."

Valentino stood up and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the light switch.

"Sleep now. I’ll be back in the evening to check your fever. And Marc?"

Marc groaned, barely conscious.

"Don't try to bribe the guards. They get paid much more by me than you could ever offer them from a frozen bank account."

The lights went out, leaving Marc in the darkness. He felt the weight of the silk sheets, the throb of his injuries, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, he wasn't the one in control of the throttle. He was a passenger in Valentino Rossi’s world, and the Doctor was known for never letting go of the lead.

Downstairs, the sound of Alex’s muffled protest and Luca’s low, soothing murmurs drifted through the vents. They were together, but they were miles apart, separated by the walls of a gilded cage that was designed to hold them forever.

Marc’s last thought before the darkness took him was of the track—the smell of hot asphalt, the scream of the engine, and the feeling of freedom. It felt like a dream from a different life. Here, in the silence of the villa, there was only the scent of cedar and the feeling of the velvet noose tightening around his neck.