Chapter 7
Heart's a metronome of panic keeping anxious beat…
Vale
Twenty-four hours of observation gave Vale a comprehensive understanding of Kieran’s baseline responses, and something about the boy’s sudden compliance felt calculated. Too smooth. Too easy. Like someone who decided cooperation was strategic rather than genuine.
So he unlocked a door. The living room. Just to see if Kieran would keep testing what he could access.
Vale was delighted to find Kieran in the living room, ostensibly reading a book from one of his shelves, but really he just stared at the same page for ten minutes. He still wore the soft clothes Vale provided, his posture carefully neutral in a way that screamed performance.
“Good morning,” Vale said.
Kieran looked up, and there it was—the micro-expression of fear smoothed into something resembling calm acceptance. Too fast. Too practiced.
You’re playing a part, beautiful boy. Let’s see how long you can maintain it.
“Morning,” Kieran replied, his voice steady. He set the book aside and made eye contact. Every movement looked calculated to appear cooperative without seeming suspicious.
Vale settled into the chair across from him, studying the careful mask Kieran had constructed overnight. This was the behavior of someone who decided that overt resistance was counterproductive, that compliance might buy time or opportunities.
Clever. But not clever enough.
“We’re going to work on your music today,” Vale said simply. “I want you to play your song for me.”
“Okay.” Kieran’s voice was neutral, agreeable. “What d-do you need me t-to do?”
Too compliant.
Vale gestured to where Kieran’s guitar leaned against the wall—cleaned, restrung, and perfectly maintained during the hours Kieran had been sleeping. “Play. I’ll listen.”
He watched Kieran stand, moving to retrieve the guitar with movements that were slightly too controlled.
Kieran settled back on the couch, his fingers finding the opening chord progression with ease.
But the performance was exactly that—easy. Clean. Emotionally distant. The same protective layer he used during street performances.
Vale let him get through the first verse before speaking. “Stop.”
Kieran’s hands stilled on the strings, confusion marring his careful expression. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re hiding.” Vale stood, moved to the side table where a small box of supplies remained unopened since this morning. “We’re going to fix that.”
He opened the box and removed latex gloves, gauze, ice packs, a sealed scalpel in sterile packaging, and a small container of salt.
Kieran’s face drained of color. “W-what is that?”
Vale pulled on the gloves, the latex snapping against his wrists. He didn’t answer. Explanations would give Kieran too much control, too much ability to prepare mentally.
Better to keep him uncertain.
Vale retrieved an instant ice pack and shook it to activate it as he moved to sit beside Kieran on the couch. “Your arm.”
Kieran hesitated, then slowly extended his arm. Vale applied the ice pack to his inner forearm and held it in place.
“What are you d-doing?”
Vale checked his watch and began timing. He still didn’t answer.
The ice burned against Kieran’s skin, Vale knew. It would be uncomfortable, then painful, then eventually numbing. He watched Kieran’s face as the minutes ticked by—two, three, five—absorbing each wince, each purse of his lips, each sign of discomfort, confusion,and growing dread.
He wanted to drink that dread.
At seven minutes, Vale removed the ice pack. Kieran’s skin was pale and bloodless.
“Tell me when you can feel this.” Vale pressed a fingertip against the numbed area.
“I can’t—it’s numb.”
“Good.”
Vale removed the scalpel from its sterile packaging and tested the edge against his gloved thumb, then pressed the blade against the numbed skin on Kieran’s arm. “I need you to hold still so I don’t make a mistake.”
Kieran seemed as frozen as his arm, staring at the blade like he could will it to disappear. He didn’t move.
The first cut was shallow. Kieran would feel a little pressure but not the pain, at least not at first, his face screwing up in confusion at the wrongness of sensation without hurt.
Blood welled up immediately, a thin line of red against pale skin.
“Play,” Vale said.
Kieran stared at his arm, at the cut, at Vale. “I don’t understand w-what you—”
“Play the song.”
Kieran’s hands found the guitar, his fingers clumsy from the cold and shock. He managed the opening notes, but it was worse than before—his technique was compromised by confusion and delayed pain—but he was functional.
Still trying to hide.
Vale watched him play through the first verse, noting the way Kieran kept glancing at his arm where blood ran down toward his wrist.
“Again,” Vale said when Kieran finished. “From the beginning.”
“But I ju-just—”
“Again.”
Kieran started over, and Vale retrieved another ice pack from the medical case.
He applied it to a different section of Kieran’s forearm while he played and held it in place through the entire song, watching the cold seep in, watching Kieran’s fingers grow clumsier as sensation faded from a new area.
When Kieran finished, Vale removed the ice pack and made a second cut. Parallel to the first.
Kieran’s fingers stumbled on the strings, missed a note, but he kept going. The first cut must have started burning as circulation returned, and now there was a second adding to the sensation.
“Again,” Vale said.
“I’m trying—” Kieran’s voice cracked. “I don’t kn-know what you w-want from me.”
Vale didn’t answer. He just watched him start the song again.
Kieran’s playing degraded with each repetition. The notes stumbled, his rhythm faltered, and his voice broke as he tried to sing. But he still tried, desperately attempting to give Vale something even as blood dripped onto the guitar strings.
Fascinating. Higher pain tolerance than expected.
Vale let him finish the song, then reached for a leather restraint in the box.
Kieran saw it and went rigid. “What are those?”
“You’re going to want to pull away,” Vale said, securing the cuff around Kieran’s wrist and wound the rest of the restraint around his hand like a leash. “This prevents that.”
“Wait—” Kieran tried to pull back, but Vale pulled his arm straight.
Kieran pulled back, but Vale jerked his arm forward. “No—t-take this off—”
Vale applied ice to a third section of Kieran’s arm, yanking him forward a second time as he tried to pull away. “If you keep this up, I’ll end up dislocating your shoulder. Stop fighting.”
“Please don’t.” Kieran’s voice had gone tight with real fear now. “P-please, I’ll do whatever you want, ju-just don’t—”
Vale removed the ice pack after five minutes and made a third and fourth cut while Kieran shook, his eyes wide and glistening with tears. Vale felt a strange warmth in his belly as he thought about licking those tears, but he pushed the thought away.
Blood ran down Kieran’s arm, the returning circulation made all of them bright red simultaneously.
Vale released the restraint. “Play.”
Kieran tried to play. He got through maybe half the song before he abandoned singing and his chest stuttered with a held back sob, before his fingers fumbled so badly the chord progression collapsed into fragments.
“Stop,” Vale said. “Again.”
“I can’t—” Kieran’s breath came in harsh pants. “Please, I c-can’t do this anymore—”
“You can.”
Vale reached for Kieran’s arm, but he jerked backward, pressing himself into the couch. “No—no more—”
“We’re not finished.”
“I can’t—” Kieran tried to stand, but Vale blocked him, one hand firm on his shoulder. “Pl-please, I can’t—”
Vale retrieved the salt. Kieran’s eyes went wide watching him open the container.
“Don’t—” Kieran’s voice pitched up toward panic. “Please d-don’t, that’s going to—”
He tried to pull his arm away, but Vale caught his wrist. Kieran twisted, using his other hand to push against Vale’s chest, a genuine fight-or-flight response overriding any attempt at strategic compliance.
Finally. Real emotion instead of performance.
Vale shifted forward, using his weight to press Kieran back against the couch. Kieran struggled harder, his breath coming in sharp gasps as Vale’s thigh pressed between his legs, pinning him in place.
“Stop fighting me.”
“Get off—” Kieran tried to buck him off, his hands pushing at Vale’s shoulders.
Vale settled his full weight across Kieran’s lap, straddling him with knees on either side of his hips. He caught both of Kieran’s wrists in one hand, pinned them above his head against the couch back.
The position was immediately, viscerally intimate.
Kieran went rigid beneath him, eyes wide with something beyond just fear. “W-what are you—”
Their chests were pressed together, Vale’s face inches from Kieran’s, close enough to feel every panicked breath against his lips. Close enough to see the precise moment when Kieran’s panic shifted into something closer to terror as he realized exactly how trapped he was.
“Hold still,” Vale breathed, trying to ignore the warm feeling that was getting hotter..
He applied salt to the first wound with his free hand, watching Kieran’s face contort from this close. He felt every flinch, every attempt to twist away, every gasp as the salt burned through already damaged tissue.
Kieran made a sound that might have been a scream if he’d had enough air for it. His whole body arched up against Vale’s weight, his spine curving in a way that pressed their hips further together.
Vale’s body responded before his mind could override the reaction.
His pulse quickened and his cock stiffened in his pants in response to having Kieran trapped beneath him, creating a delightful friction as he struggled.
No… This doesn’t happen... This is educational.
Vale moved to the second wound, applying salt while Kieran sobbed breathlessly beneath him, still trying to pull his wrists free, still trying to arch away from the burning pain.