Chapter 3
Victor
I can’t breathe. I’m choking on air. My head is a black hole filled with pain and terror.
How the fuck was I supposed to know Sevastyan is a serial killer?
Hiding in plain sight means exactly that, and he’s been good at it.
I, on the other hand, am about to be tortured and violated for fuck knows how long. As if my life wasn’t bad enough already.
The dark fog lifts a bit when he pulls the pliers away, but I flinch as I sense warm arms wrap around me.
Is he… hugging me?
“Shhh… it’s okay. You’re okay. I mean… you’re not, but I won’t torture you today. Deep breaths.”
My mind can’t comprehend what’s going on, but I still lean into the warm man in front of me. How ironic is it that I’ve not been hugged in years, and this is how I’m breaking that pathetic streak? I sob helplessly, just letting it all come out while he strokes my back in calm circular movements .
He smells of oil paint. And charcoal. So at least he does create his own paintings. Presumably.
“You’re okay. I won’t hurt you, and maybe by tomorrow you will decide to tell me everything without all that blood and pain, hm?” He leans back, that agonizingly perfect face smiling for me as he cups my cheeks and wipes tears with his thumbs.
I’m not a child. I don’t need to be consoled like this, and yet—
Yet it feels so good, even if he’s only playing with me.
A part of me still can’t believe I’m interacting with Sevastyan . He’s nothing like the version of him I created in my head. He looks as if he’s stepped out of one of his paintings, and that ruins the plan I so carefully constructed.
A plan I now see was doomed from the start, because while Sevastyan might be a painter, he’s also an absolute psycho.
But as I stare into his eyes, he aligns his breathing to mine, and I’m slowly able to inhale again.
“Yes?” I whisper, because what else am I supposed to do? I can only attempt to run away in the future if I stay alive.
He grins, freeing my legs from one of the leather straps holding me in the torture chair.
“I knew we could come to an agreement. You look like a reasonable person,” he says in that melodic accent I can’t initially identify.
He sounds Russian, so maybe his nationality wasn’t yet another fake story to accompany the art after all?
“I am.” I can hardly recognize my voice through the thudding in my ears.
Now that I can breathe, the pain in my leg comes back with a vengeance, but I won’t be complaining to the person who had no qualms about putting that bolt there in the first place.
“I’m very agreeable,” I add even though I’m analyzing if kicking him in that beautiful face would give me enough advantage to make a run for it.
I’m afraid not, unless I convince him to free my hands.
I don’t even know where we are inside this massive house.
Once all the straps hang off the chair, Sevastyan slides his fingers around my arm and guides me off. “You were lucky. I could have lured you to the trap that shoots people in the chest.”
Oh, God. Of course. When he took a step back, I followed, and that’s when the bolt shot my leg.
This is… insanity. It means that even if I managed to sneak away from him, the traps could still trigger and keep me inside this house.
Then again, there must be a system in place for him to turn them on and off standby, or he wouldn’t be able to live here.
My brain is frying.
As soon as I put my weight on the injured leg, it buckles under me, but Sevastyan is quick enough to catch me.
I’m burning everywhere he touches me. Which is fucked up , because he has a saw and knives on the wall.
It shouldn’t matter that his face matches his pictures, that he’s tall, strong, and smells better than I ever imagined.
I hate him. This bastard has ruined my life. Just because I also have a slightly unhealthy obsession with him doesn’t mean I find him attractive.
Who wouldn’t? Killer psycho or not, he is insanely beautiful.
“My apologies. You’re less resilient than I assumed,” he tells me, and before I can challenge him about offending me, he sweeps me into his arms, as if I’m a tiny princess and he—the Prince Charming carrying me to safety.
Too bad he is the danger here.
My hands are zip-tied behind my back, so I have no way of stabilizing myself. I have to depend on him not dropping me. “And you’re… nothing like I thought,” I whisper, un able to look away from his blue eyes. How can a man be both this beautiful and this cruel?
He seems to like that.
“What did you think I would be like?” he asks, carrying me out of the minimalist torture chamber, back into the hallway I’d barely noticed on the way in. Each concrete wall displays art, and while I don’t recognize most of the paintings, they’re all quality works.
Figures. With a house like this, he surely isn’t strapped for cash.
“Not so… scary? I’m sorry! Forget that, I didn’t mean it,” I scramble in panic. I shouldn’t have said that. I should probably flatter him, endear myself to this monster instead of babbling out of sheer terror.
We pass through a grand room with a tall ceiling and massive windows beyond which the storm is still raging. I didn’t know what to expect from his house either, but it’s definitely not the clear spaces with minimal décor and furnishings. The place is like a modern art gallery.
He laughs as we step into a spacious kitchen. Not only does it offer ample counter space but appears like a place that’s actually used.
“I try to keep that part of me secret.”
I smell the hint of sugar and butter even before he carries me between the large cooker and the kitchen island, which has all kinds of saucepans and utensils hanging off a rack above. On the edge of the counter is a used baking tray, and next to it—a large plate of bird-shaped cookies.
Did he… bake those?
He’s so handsome when he laughs it’s unbearable. After what he did to me tonight I should hate him even more than I already did, not simp for him.
“I can see why. Fun fact about me? I’m really good at keeping secrets.” I’m also fighting for my life here .
Fuck, his eyes are so blue they appear almost translucent when he looks at me from up close. “That won’t matter. Cookie? They might still be warm.”
“Y-yes?” I need to please him. If he wanted to kill me, he would have just done that in the torture room, not created some elaborate poisoned cookie scheme.
The way Sevastyan watches me when he sits me on the counter is though he can see right through me. As if none of my thoughts are mine anymore, and he’s methodically peeling away all my layers.
I’m scared, but my body heats up with every passing moment. Maybe I’m an adrenaline junkie and didn’t know it until now?
“Tell me what you think. New recipe,” he says and offers me one. I’m not sure if we’re having a gay little moment, or if he’s toying with me like I’m a racoon he found in his trash.
I don’t even have to lie. The cookie is simple, buttery, vanilla, but with a hint of lemon. I’m so stressed it’s hard to swallow at first. “It’s delicious,” I finally say once I’m done with the whole thing.
He chews on that for half a second, then picks up a second cookie, which he then puts to my lips. “You may take a few, in case you get hungry at night,” he offers as if he hasn’t put a crossbow bolt in my leg and threatened me with torture.
Maybe… he’s lonely? Could that be my way out? He’s a known recluse. He never leaves this house. If I’m entertaining enough, will he keep me alive?
I eat the cookie like a good boy, even though I’m definitely not good.
“Oh. Okay. And… where am I going?” I ask once he picks me up again which… yeah, is a bit swoony and confusing.
“Your bedroom,” he offers, walking past a huge self-portrait depicting him in front of an ocean.
All his paintings are like that—large-scale and in rich colors.
His dark hair is often finished with highlights of real gold leaf, face stunningly realistic in contrast to the blurred scenery behind him.
It’s incredible.
I hate him so much.
Even if I was this talented, I don’t have a grand studio where I could work on a piece this big, nor can I afford the amount of oil paint it would require.
“This one. It’s… very beautiful,” I say as we pass the painting, partially to flatter him, partially to show him I can be someone he can talk to about art. “Do you actually paint them yourself?”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I know I said the wrong thing when his eyes turn to slits, and I’m afraid he’s about to drop me on my head.
“What do you mean?” he asks, kicking a door open. The lamp switches on near-instantly as we enter a large bedroom. It looks luxurious but pretty ordinary, if it wasn’t for the lack of windows.
I swallow, but there’s no way to back out now.
“That… maybe you have other things you enjoy.” I think back to the sharp teeth of the saw in the torture room.
“So maybe you have a painter locked in the basement to keep up your cover?” I laugh nervously despite the throbbing pain in my leg and a sinking feeling in my stomach.
He chuckles and sets me down on the soft sheets.
They’re smooth as silk, and I find myself rolling to my back.
Maybe there were drugs in the cookies after all?
“If I had a choice, I would rather employ someone to clean my home. The Roombas can only do so much.” With that, he leans down and pops open my zipper.
I still, my mind blank as I stare at him.
What the fuck ?
“Wh-wh-wh…what are you doing?” I finally manage to choke out. I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a spontaneous stutter in his presence.
His eyes meet mine, but my protest doesn’t deter him, and I watch helplessly as he drags both my jeans and my underwear down, revealing my thin, pale legs, and my crotch. Haven’t I been humiliated enough?
“I need to check if you don’t have any more weapons.”
My face is on fire as he takes his time pulling off my shoes as well.
I can’t find my voice. At least I’m too panicked to get aroused.
Which, on the other hand, might be a bad thing, because I’m more of a grower.
Why would I care if I impress him with my dick size?
No idea, since it’s not happening either way.
He turns my shoe in his hand with an expression I can’t read. “These are really small. What is this? A six?”
I lose it. There’s only so much a man can take. “Fuck you!” I try to kick him, but he grabs my foot. Of-fucking-course.
“I’m just making conversation. No reason to get this worked up,” he says and climbs onto the bed, straddling me before I can protest. Not that it would do much against him ripping my damn T-shirt in two.
I can’t look him in the face. I clamp my lips shut while breathing hard through my nose. If I am to survive this, I have to control myself.
Reasonably, I can see how taking my stuff makes sense, how I am less likely to escape if I’m naked. But it doesn’t stop the shame from creeping in when I’m right next to this absolute god in human form. I’m short, skinny, and covered in more freckles than reasonable.
Unwanted. Unseen. Underappreciated.
I yelp, blooming with heat as he rolls me to my front, still sitting on my thighs as I bite down on the sheet .
What is happening? If this is all to check me for weapons, is he going to perform a cavity search next?
My twisted mind drifts back to the way he put on latex gloves to deal with my wound…
Okay. This is bad. Blood, please stay in my face, stop flowing down .
I’m like a rabbit caught in snares, but also, this rabbit is kinky and fucked up.
The silence is somehow even worse than the comment he made earlier.
I’m desperate to break it so I can distract myself from the inevitable arousal caused by this perfect man sitting on top of me while I’m naked.
And yet, my tongue twists and I can’t think of anything to say.
Time slows, and I only snap out of the shock when the zip-ties open.
He pulls off what’s left of my T-shirt, and takes my backpack too.
He then pulls my hands above my head, and ties them again.
By the time he rolls off me, I’m getting so hot and sweaty, I don’t dare protest, because that would expose my hardening cock, making me even more of a spectacle.
“All right, I’ll see you in the morning,” he says.
My new ties leave me a bit more freedom, and I look up at him in what I can only explain as ‘distress’. Because what the fuck?
I make sure to turn in a way that hides my crotch, but when I do that, he steps closer.
“Ah. I like to keep it warm in the house, but here you go,” he says and pulls a soft blanket over me. He then points out the cookies on the nightstand. “And in the meantime I’ll have a look in here.” He shakes my beat-up backpack, and my erection goes down, because… No .
“It’s just junk!” I say all too quickly, because I’m not used to violence, to high-stress situations, or threats to my life. Today’s break-in was me losing my damn mind.
I shouldn’t have been this reactive, because it brings a new glint to his eyes.
“Well, well, well, now I really want to see what’s inside,” he says and steps back, opening my only way out.
For a moment, I itch to dash at him, but the truth is that if I collided with his chest, I’d simply crumble to the floor.
“Oh, and behave,” he adds, pointing to the ceiling. “I’ll be watching.”
I slowly look up at the camera pointed straight at me.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck!