13. LEO
THIRTEEN
LEO
There's blood and cum on my tongue. The blood is mine; a cracked molar, nearly split. The cum is his, and I taste it, bitter and thick as glue in the back of my throat.
Dante didn't even look at me when he slammed the door. Didn't pause, didn't ask. He just left me on the floor, on my knees, vibrating with the kind of pain that only gets better the more it hurts.
Fuck. He made me come untouched.
I spit into the trash can under the desk: pink foam.
My mouth still works through the half-numb agony—my molar is definitely done for.
Every time I bite down, the pain fires through my whole head and sets off a shudder down my spine that somehow ends in my groin.
Turns out cum—and Dante's harshness—is inflammatory.
The swelling in my gums pulsates like a heart.
I give it less than twelve hours before my jaw swells up.
I stumble towards the en-suite bathroom. The mirror reflects a wreck: bruised jaw, red cheek, swollen lips, a smear of blood and cum painting my chin and neck. So this is what Dante brings out.
I lean closer to the mirror, opening my mouth and pulling down my bottom lip. A jagged shard like a tiny mountain peak, a fresh tear in the gum around it, oozing crimson. It looks bad. Really bad.
He did this. Dante. It's a brand. A physical mark of his control, his presence in me. My own fucked-up keepsake.
I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, scrubbing at the fluids. I clean—as I can—my mouth and teeth, I shower, but the phantom marks of his hands are under my skin.
I'm exhausted. The physical toll of the last day, coupled with the emotional whiplash of being back with Dante, has drained me.
I walk back into the main room, bare-chested despite the cold, toweling my hair dry. I eye the bed, stark white, pristine. Maybe a few hours. Just enough to recharge.
Just as I'm about to reach for the covers, I hear a soft knock on the main door.
Dante wouldn't be back so soon, and Luca doesn't knock.
The door opens, revealing a figure silhouetted against the bright hallway lights of the mansion.
I freeze. She's fucking beautiful.
She's a tall, elegant woman, with long, chemically straightened dark hair slicked back, highlighting her prominent cheekbones. Her ice-green eyes are hidden behind small, thin-rimmed, rounded elliptical glasses.
She scans the room. The desk, the made bed, the half-open bathroom door. And then she looks at me.
I feel a little self-conscious. If I had known I'd have a visitor, I would've gotten dressed.
She runs her eyes over my body without disguising it. The bruises, the random swellings. It's not hard to see with the paleness of my skin.
Only then does she look me in the eyes.
"Nyx, I presume?"
Her voice is clear and as icy as the color of her irises.
She's beautiful. And the shape of her face, her nose, somehow reminds me of Dante. Their skin tone, at least, is identical.
"Only online," I correct, stretching my jaw slightly. Now with the back of my mouth throbbing, I have difficulty articulating properly. "It's Leonel. Leo, actually."
She tilts her chin. She looks like an executive who humiliates her employees. I mean it as a compliment.
"Of course. Leo. I'm Svetlana Volkov. Dante's sister." She extends her hand. I shake it firmly. Her skin is icy. "I admit I expected a woman at first—the goddess Nyx. I heard you worked miracles with our systems. Twenty-four hours is impressive. Truly."
"I just did my job," I say, shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant despite the pulsing in my mouth. My eyes flicker to the porcelain flower shards on the floor by the wall. I wonder if she noticed. She doesn't react.
Svetlana's gaze sweeps over me again, lingering on a bruise below my ribs. "My brother seems quite impressed. Though he's rather... protective of his assets. Especially the valuable ones."
She's analyzing the bruises. And she 100% believes Dante's "methods" involve beating me up until I comply.
Not that it's far from it.
"He has his methods," I agree, a phantom warmth coiling in my stomach at the thought of Dante's hands on me. I suppress it. It would be indelicate to get hard in front of her. "They're effective."
She arches her eyebrows and gives me a half-smile.
She stares at the bruises again. She's judging.
"I imagine. We need to ensure that efficiency continues.
My brother has been rather... vague about the details of your operation.
" She steps closer, walking directly to the desk.
I don't know how she maintains such perfect balance in such thin heels.
"I insisted on coming to meet you, Leonel.
Before you delve back into our systems, I have a personal request; a small favor, so to speak. "
She maintains eye contact while I grab a hoodie from my backpack—abandoned and stripped of all devices—to cover myself. She doesn't seem to care.
"I was informed that you, besides having helped us before, were the first to point out the existence of someone infiltrating our networks.
I deeply respect my brother, but his approaches tend to be too direct.
We haven't found anything physical in the routines of anyone on the team, and that alarms me more than it reassures me…
therefore, I would like someone to go deeper.
I want to dissect the digital life of our personnel, especially within the time period when our internal information began to leak.
I compiled a list of some of our collaborators with technological access. "
Svetlana pulls a small external drive from inside her blazer.
"I will let you have your fun with this.
I want you to analyze all their data history inside and outside the company, regardless of whether it's personal or not.
Of course, we don't want any unwanted attention.
.. So while your sick leave lasts, I want you to file at least 30% of this list. Consider this your primary directive.
Your continued comfort here depends on your success. "
She delicately places the drive on the desk, next to the computer keyboard.
I never told them about my sick leave, but of course they know. This is the kind of mundane work I hate, though rummaging through strangers' personal lives has a certain appeal… I suppose.
"I understand," I say. Perhaps my comfort would be better spent with my wrists handcuffed, trapped in some dungeon. I wonder if Dante agrees with this, if he would pay me in some way. "I'll do it."
She gives me a restrained smile. "Good. If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to ask Luca.
He will ensure your needs are met." Her eyes settle on my bruised jaw and linger on the corner of my mouth, on the swelling.
"And Leonel," she adds, quieter, "if my brother's methods become counterproductive, let me know.
We value our resources. And we do not tolerate unnecessary damage.
" She then steps away from the desk and strides to the door.
"Dante will be informed of your new assignment. "
I stare at the external drive on the desk. A bland, rectangular piece of plastic. A monument to boredom. This is her idea of torture. Endless, mind-numbing data.
Svetlana, for all her icy beauty and calculating eyes, is so utterly conventional in her cruelty.
She thinks comfort is a soft bed and a clean room, but that doesn't quench the thirst he ignited in me. He beats me, she gives me a file. What's the fucking difference?
If Dante's going to give me more of himself each time, then I already place him in a position of importance above my daily work. The work here is similar—more challenging and more interesting, just not enough to sustain me—so the aspect that matters most to me, once again, is him.
I need him not to cast me aside. I can put up with empty tasks as long as he doesn't drown me completely in monotony.
Ultimately, this brings me back to what consumed me for an entire week before I was locked in this velvet cage.
If Dante needs me against his own will, there will be no monotony. Only him.
I guess there's nothing left for me to do but perform work that surpasses the pragmatic expectations of the ice queen that is his sister… and, of course, his own.
Thinking of the free pass Svetlana gave me, I walk to the door. Of course, it's locked—I can't leave here. I knock on it three times.
Speaking, now, hurts. "Luca?" I exclaim.
After a second or two, I hear his voice. Reduced to a doorkeeper, Luca?
" Yes, Mr. Hays? " he calls me by my surname. I don't like formality, and I feel in his tone of voice that he also loathes speaking formally to me like this. Why would he owe me respect?
"You know where I work," I say, because they surely already do. "Can you call there and ask Nicole to water my fern?"
The ensuing silence makes me think he's gone.
" What? "
"My fern."
I lean my bruised head against the door, closing my eyes. There's an eternity of silence.
He asks, "That's all?"
"That's all," I say. The words send a fresh jolt through my jaw. The pain is chemical. Makes me feel alive.
There's another pause. Then a quiet, almost defeated sound.
"I… will comply. Sir."
He is utterly disgusted to call me sir.