14. DANTE #2
I kept repeating to myself that it was just a job, all the while muffling all the stupidity of that businessman who only showed the bare minimum of respect when I opened my mouth.
He spoke to my sister as if she were a waitress.
Svetlana belonged in this world of power as much as I did.
Her blood was my blood. Her name was my name.
I don't remember what he said before he died. After Svetlana had torn through all his terrible arguments, he said something. Something about her place, about her usefulness as if she were a cheap whore. He took the name Volkov, a name forged in blood, and dragged it through the mud.
I stood up. I don't remember deciding to stand up.
I didn't look at Svetlana. I didn't look at anyone.
My eyes were fixed on the stain, on the smiling worm who still didn't understand he had just signed his own death warrant.
The mantra in my head— it's just a job —went silent.
Everything did. And then, my hands did what they were born to do.
When the silence disappeared, I only heard a sharp ringing. And screams. A police or ambulance siren—I don't know. And I was breathless, my hands raw and covered in red. The blood was his and mine, from where my knuckles had burst open. I shattered his head until it was unrecognizable.
The disgust I felt for him was nothing compared to the disgust I felt for myself. For the part of me that had enjoyed it.
My father had never looked at me with so much pride before that. I had converted to him, and Svetlana knows it. She knows that whatever was in our father is also in me.
And Nyx.
He looks at me with those pale, unnerving eyes, and he sees a kindred spirit. He sees the monster I've spent half my life trying to bury. And he begs for it. He moans for it. He gets hard for it.
What is so different about him?
He is the only person I have ever met who looks at the worst part of me—the part I inherited from my father, the only part that terrifies me—and calls it salvation.
"He's not... he's not normal," I say. I walk to the leather-padded bench in the corner of the gym and sit down. There's no way to explain how sick Nyx can be. "He asked me to... to hurt him."
Dmitry approaches me. In silence, he sits down next to me. "And you did?"
He knows me well enough to know the answer is yes.
"He was provoking me. And he... he liked it. He doesn't mind getting beaten, Dmitry. He wants more."
The sight of Nyx's smile, the blood on his lips, the admiration in his eyes, haunts me. I remember the pleasure he felt, and the bile rises in my throat.
"But you mind the beating," Dmitry states, without preamble. "Why?"
My shame and my disgust are not for Nyx. They're for myself.
Dmitry sighs, carrying years of living with my explosive temper. He knows that rage is my armor.
"Donya," he says. He uses that nickname that I hate. "Sveta said the kid's face is all messed up. You know we love you, but... you need more control."
Control abandoned me from the moment I pointed a gun at Nyx's head. That night was my cataclysm.
The whisper comes out before I can think. "I am not my father."
I don't look at Dmitry. I stare at the wraps on my knuckles, the reddish spots that start to appear. I try to convince myself. I'm not my father and I don't see pleasure in hurting someone else.
I've been trying to convince myself of that for years.
I feel Dmitry's hand on my back. A brother's gesture, one I would have gladly received years ago. Now, it only serves to remind me how exposed I am.
"No, Donya. You're much better."
I don't answer. I don't know how. To thank him would be a weakness. To disagree would give voice to the monster.
"Sveta is just worried," Dmitry continues, with that calm, irritating voice of someone who always knows the right thing to say.
"I know you don't want to hear this, but she's right.
The kid is a valuable asset. Maybe... maybe we should treat him as such.
Give him what he wants, within limits, to keep him cooperating. "
Of course. And there it is again, the normalization of what they think is just another fucking asset. I stare at him. For him, it's trivial.
"You have no idea what he wants, Dima. You think he's one of your programmers who gets satisfied with an end-of-year bonus?"
Dmitry shrugs. "Whatever it is. Pain, attention, a leather whip with the Volkov logo, or his girlfriend tending to a fern. What does it matter? It's a means to an end. If he needs to get beaten to code better, then we hire a goon to do the job. Problem solved."
I stand up abruptly.
"You don't understand a fucking thing. Svetlana thinks he's a depressed wretch. You think he's an HR problem that can be solved with a standard procedure. You're both wrong."
I turn, not caring about the towel on the floor. I don't know what Nyx said to Svetlana, I don't know what kind of shit he's plotting now, and I need to fix it.
I feel Dmitry's eyes on my back. "Where are you going? We were doing so well..."
I open the gym door and slam it shut behind me, on my way to the demon who calls me salvation.
The door to his room opens, the silent sound of metal against concrete echoing in the quiet. I slam it shut behind me, the final, loud thud a full stop. I don't give a damn about knocking. This is my house, my problem.
"What the fuck did you tell my siblings?
" I growl, crossing the distance between us in a few long strides.
He's sitting at the desk, hunched over his computer, but I don't care about his work.
I care about what he did to me. "What did you say to them to make them think you're a victim? That you're... depressed ?"
He turns his face, his body unmoving. The bruises on his jaw and cheek have deepened to a nauseating shade of purple, but what I notice now is the swelling. His entire left side is swollen, distorting his once-angular features. He looks like he lost a fight with a beehive.
"What are you talking about?" he says, his voice slurred.
I slam my hands on the table, leaning over him.
"You're a fucking maniac! You get off on being humiliated!
And what about the fucking fern, huh? A girlfriend ?
You, who bleeds and moans for me, who begs me to hurt you, are worried about having your little girlfriend tending to a fucking houseplant? "
His face, usually so expressive in its perversion, only twists into a pained frown. "Mister—I don't understand," he says, moving his jaw in a strange, locked way. "Are you mad because I have a plant?"
I look at his jaw again, at the grotesque swelling. He can barely speak properly.
"What the fuck is wrong with your face?"
He doesn't flinch. He just gives a small smile. "It's just a souvenir. You gave it to me."
"You're talking like you have a golf ball in your mouth. Let me see."
He doesn't pull away when I grab his chin with force and press my thumb against his lower lip.
I've never touched him with such care—this swelling makes him look even more fragile, and he obeys the pressure of my touch, opening his mouth and looking at me with that curious, obscene fervor sparking in his eyes.
I ignore it, carefully pulling his lip away to see what's going on.
In the back of his dental arch, it's pretty obvious.
I don't need to search. One of his molars is practically split open, with the swollen, reddish pulp underneath.
It's clearly inflamed and mirrored in the surrounding gum, and it's disgusting, grotesque.
This isn't from one careless day. It's a miracle he can articulate at all.
I let go of him. He closes his mouth, but his teeth don't touch—of course not, it must hurt like hell.
"What the fuck is that?" I say, tense.
"A molar," he replies as if it's simple, as if it's nothing. "The nerve is exposed."
The image of the other night flashes through my mind. The blood. The way his mouth was a mix of spit and red. I didn't think about it at the time—I figured it was just a cut, a small wound on his lips. Not... this. Not a broken tooth.
"You were spitting blood all over my cock—why the hell didn't you say anything?" I growl, my voice filled with self-directed disgust. He's not taking it seriously. He's satisfied.
"I had my mouth busy, mister… and it's a mark of your touch. I like it."
Fuck, this is different. The idea of him walking around with a broken tooth, a living testament to my brutality, makes me want to vomit. It's grotesque. It's one thing for him to say he gets off on a controlled punch, it's another to have this, something I can't control.
I don't know where this thought is taking me. It's strange territory that I'm even justifying his sick pleasure.
"You're fucking crazy. Do you think about this while you eat? That you have a piece of me in your mouth?" I say with disgust.
"No," he says hoarsely, and my body freezes, bracing for a new wave of depravity. "But it's a reminder of what you do to me." He pauses, staring at my groin for a split second. "I thought you would press it, you know. My molar. I fantasized about it."
He pronounces each word as if he's genuinely getting turned on at the thought of someone pressing an inflamed tooth. It makes me sick.
"I don't like hurting you, you sick fuck."
"You don't?" he whispers. The sound sends a shiver down my arms. "It didn't seem like it. You fucked my mouth until I gagged. Want to do it again?"
A wave of pure nausea hits me. The idea of that sound… that wet, nauseating sound of sucking and swallowing…
"This is ridiculous," I say, trying to sink the heat that appears against my will. Damn it, I tell myself I don't take pleasure in hurting him, but his reactions stir something in me far more than they should. And I know he would love for me to do it again. "You need a dentist."
I retreat to snatch up my phone. The most reliable, discreet dentist we can find—I emphasize it's urgent as Nyx continues to gaze at me, captivated and expectant. He's a disaster, but for some reason, I can't quite grasp why I find him beautiful, in a messed-up way.
"Don't move," I order. "Don't do anything but wait for the dentist. Understood?"
He nods, with that horrible reverence.
I lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair. The idea of him thinking about our encounter while chewing is mental poison.
His heavy breathing fills the room. He's watching me. I can feel it.
"Since you're going to fix it..." he says, still hoarse from the swelling and the throbbing in his mouth. "This will be my last chance for a while. Give me a real kiss. One that makes me bleed."
I see the plea in his eyes. He's challenging me. Pressing me to embrace the violence he craves. It's a coward's game, and I hate being seconds away from losing.
The request echoes in my head.
One that makes me bleed.
It's disgusting. It's insane. He's insane, and so am I for even considering it. He wants a bloody kiss like a fucking teenager wants a first kiss—a kiss stained with the coppery taste of his own blood.
And yet…
My hands clench at my sides. A muscle in my jaw twitches. I want to tell him no. I want to turn around, open the door, and let the fucking dentist deal with his sick fantasies. But I can't. Not when he looks at me like that, like I'm the only one who can give him what he wants.
I take a step. He doesn't move, just watches me. I can see the pulse in his neck, the way his chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
I stop in front of him. My hand, without my permission, raises. I grab a handful of his messy black hair, pulling his head up, forcing him to look at me, exactly how I know he likes it.
"You don't learn, do you, you worm?" I snarl, and he moans in pleasure.
"No. I don't."
I smash my mouth against his, a violent collision of rage and desire. I force my way in, which he gives up immediately, and I slide my tongue over his. It doesn't take long for the taste of blood to appear, hot and coppery.
He doesn't flinch. He just moans, vibrating against my lips, and digs his fingers into my shirt in a frantic, possessive clawing. He's all in, and his surrender is so complete it feels like a victory.
I deepen the kiss, biting down on his lower lip until a fresh trickle of blood mixes with the old.
He whimpers, pleased. The surge of heat is so intense that it almost burns.
My hand tightens in his hair, and I use it to tilt his head, to dominate his mouth, to prove that I am in control, even when I'm losing it completely.
I pull away, breathless. His face is a bloody, ecstatic mess, with his swollen lips glistening with saliva and blood. I feel it on mine, too.
"About before, mister," he whispers. "Were you mad about the plant… or the girlfriend? Because I don't have one."
He leans in, pressing his bruised lips against mine again. This time, the kiss is different. It's softer. Possessive.
His hand rests on my chest, his fingers splayed over my heart, and he pushes me closer, his mouth moving against mine in a gentle rhythm. It's… new. Doesn't feel like a fight.
I want to pull away. I should. But my hands, still tangled in his hair, don't let go. Instead, they loosen their grip, almost caressing the strands. It's a complete inversion of everything that just happened, and it's a thousand times more unsettling.
This gentle touch, this soft claim, is a deeper violation of my control than any punch I've ever thrown. It's not about hurting him anymore, it's about… this . Whatever the fuck this is.
He groans into my mouth, and I feel a shiver of... something I refuse to name. It's not disgust. It's not rage. It's terrifying.
Then, a knock on the door. " Mr. Volkov? The dentist is here. "
I rip myself away from him as if he were on fire. My lungs burn.
I look at him. He's a bloody, ecstatic mess, his mouth swollen and glistening. But the smile that creeps back onto his face is a knowing curve of his lips, filled with a triumphant affection.
"See you later, mister," he murmurs.
I turn my back on him, disgusted and electrified, and open the door. The dentist's professional gaze lands on me, then glances past me to Nyx.
I don't look back. I can't. Not after that.