Chapter 4
Victor
The light in the small windowless bedroom dimmed soon after Sevastyan locked me inside its walls, but it remains white and intrusive, as if I’m under observation in some illegal medical facility.
I toss and turn, unsure what time it is, or even whether it’s still dark outside.
The lack of hunger is the only reason why I believe it’s been hours, not days since I covered myself with the plush blanket.
I’m still trying to comprehend my situation.
I lost my mind, decided to commit a crime, and now, I guess I’m paying for it by being held prisoner by a serial killer who complimented my cry-face. I’m pretty sure there will be much more crying and torment in my future, unless I manage to escape.
Should I keep trying to find a way out? Scream? Or just cover my head and wait for this psycho to catch me unaware? I keep pondering it, half lucid on the surprisingly comfortable bed.
But since something in my cell has been squeaking eerily for a while now, the faint tap that suddenly reaches my ear feels like nails screeching down a chalkboard .
I get out of bed in an attempt to find the source of the noise, but I only spot it once I roll back into bed.
What I thought was piping attached to the ceiling is actually a semi-translucent… rat tunnel? The critter stares at me curiously from above. He’s trapped here, just like me.
Does that make us... potential allies?
I chuckle the moment that thought passes through my head, because if the only help I can count on is this rodent’s, things are really not looking good for me.
But it is the one living being I’ve seen in God-knows how long, so I narrow my eyes, focusing on the bottoms of its pink paws and the dumpling-like body in a pleasant off-white shade.
And then there’s... what’s up with that poor rat’s bottom? Ah... I suppose he’s a boy.
I shudder thinking that Sevastyan might be a mad scientist who so far experimented on rats but who now has me as his new subject.
I think back to the moment he sat on me, so heavy and strong while I was helpless.
I can’t deny having fantasies of being overpowered, maybe even humiliated, but erotic thoughts are not the same as real life.
I hide my face in my hands when I think of everything he’s surely already found in my notebook.
What if it angers him so much he pulls out the pliers again? I sob at the memory of cold metal against my nipple. That memory cools off any fucked-up arousal that was growing in me before. I might have embarrassingly masochistic fantasies, but that doesn’t mean I’m the real deal.
The creak of the lock catches me off guard, and I scramble to cover myself as the door opens, revealing Sevastyan, who—
My gaze settles on the cock swinging casually between his legs as he enters .
Heat pools in my groin, and I feel faint as the man whom I despise enters the room naked. He did look beautiful in the simple clothes he wore last night, but his body is a true work of art, and I find myself salivating despite all the fear and loathing inside me.
My eyes must be wide as saucers as I hold the blanket tightly to my chest, because he must have read through my notebook, and that’s why he chose to show up like this.
I need to say something , but my voice is stuck in my dry throat.
And yet, I can’t look away, as if I’m some fucking pervert.
His cock is twice as long as mine. Maybe he is a shower, but the comparison still makes me self-conscious.
Where he’s rosy and toned, I’m thin and unhealthily pale, a fact exacerbated by the ridiculous amount of freckles on my skin.
He has a lush lawn of hair on his chest, mine is barren and marred by a couple red weeds.
He is so very painfully superior to me.
“You are a freak,” he says, showing me my diary.
I avoid looking at his face, and my gaze lands on his dick, which is even worse. “It’s a misunderstanding,” I say, but the bastard could probably cook an egg on my face right now. I’m fucked. So fucked.
“I don’t think it is. You’re no assassin. You’re a stalker,” Sevastyan tells me, his rich accent rolling through every word like a caress. He’s holding a bundle of straps in the other hand, and I recoil, almost rolling off the other side of the bed when he approaches.
I hold back a sob, but he’s not wrong. I put myself in this position.
“I just… I just wanted to…” Abduct you? Humiliate you?
Kill you? What the fuck am I supposed to say?
If he believes I intended to actually do even half of what’s in my notebook, he won’t spare me.
“Please don’t hurt me.” Pathetic, but what options do I have left other than begging?
He clicks his tongue and puts the journal under his arm to show me that the bundle of leather is a collar with a leash attached. “What was that? Are you asking me to not do any of the things you were planning to do to me?”
At least he’s soft, so maybe the nakedness isn’t sexual.
Maybe he’s simply unwilling to deal with bloodstains later?
I don’t know which is worse. Will it appease him if I come willingly?
What are my chances if I choose to fight him?
If last night is any indication, I’ve already lost. I glance over his shoulder, at the open door, but with the wound in my leg, even running would be difficult.
“They’re just fantasies. Not real plans.”
Sevastyan tut-tuts. “The gun was real.”
Fuck. Maybe I deserve this.
“I’m sorry.”
“Be a good boy. I won’t hurt you,” he tells me, opening the collar and whistling, as if he expects me to come closer, like a well-trained dog.
And I do.
There’s no way I could meet his gaze as I approach, but of course I do as he asks, eyes on his feet.
Even they are gorgeous—well-groomed, with soft skin and a peppering of hair.
This is his territory, and he’ll treat me however he wants.
It’s inevitable. All I can do is look for a way out while keeping him content.
I must not misconstrue this as a sex thing, because I’m already being humiliated enough.
“You’re such a good boy, Victor,” he tells me as the collar tightens around my neck, and something about the brief moment of choking pressure has me rising to my toes.
No one’s ever pronounced my name quite like this, with the sharp precision of an artist applying the tiniest streak of pigment exactly where it belongs .
I’m struck silent as I look up, focusing on the dark brown beauty spot above the left corner of his mouth, and all of a sudden, I see myself kneeling in front of him and kissing his feet while he paints.
I’m a mess. My brain is a mess. ‘Good boy’ resonates in my skull like an echo, and I discreetly move my bound hands to cover my dick.
“Why are you naked?” I whisper, unsure if I’m even allowed questions.
He tests the leash with a gentle tug, then steps aside and points me to the hallway. “Who would I cover for? This is my kingdom, and I can be just as I am. So can you,” he adds once I step out of the room.
I guess it’s natural that such a perfect human specimen wants to see his reflection in the mirror at all times.
“I do prefer clothes,” I try as he tugs me along.
It’s hard to focus on remembering every detail of my surroundings when his naked body is right beside mine.
He must have a home gym here. Why even paint when his body is the work of art?
“Well, that’s not up to you anymore,” he tells me casually, and while I can’t feel his breath on my skin, he is a step behind me. It has my skin prickling as if his hands were right there, about to touch me. “But I keep the house warm. We will both be comfortable.”
This is surreal. Is he suggesting he’ll be keeping me here? That would mean he doesn’t plan to kill me yet, but there are things worse than death. I imagine that after reading my journal, he might want to hurt me just to prove a point.
There are so many mirrors in this corridor, and it’s impossible not to glimpse at him in each one. The next time I glance to the side, I see him smirking as he watches my… back?
Deep breaths .
No, Victor, Sevastyan isn’t ogling your freckly ass .
“And… um… how long exactly is this…” I don’t even know how to form coherent thoughts, torn between fear and outbursts of anger I need to stifle before they come out of my mouth.
“What? Are you asking how long this will last?” he says and points me to the right, eyes pinned to my backside as if he’s toying with the idea of roasting my butt cheeks for dinner. “Who knows? You better keep being as good as you’ve been this morning.”
I’m not a big risk-taker. Nor am I great with change, so this new situation he’s forcing me into is just as stressful as the sight of pliers next to my nipple.
I’m speechless as we enter the kitchen. The cookies are still there, hidden under a glass dome, but now I smell an umami scent reminiscent of chicken soup and eggs.
In daylight, the place is even more stunning.
Large slabs of grey and black marble look as if they were carved out of the cliff, not brought here.
Elegant bar stools sit next to the counter, and farther down, there’s a long table with six chairs that reminds me of photoshoots in one of those interior design magazines.
But the showstopper is the floor-to-ceiling window which floods the dining area with light even when the sky is as grey as today. The storm has passed, but rain still gently taps against glass.
If this is where he spends his days, no wonder he never leaves.
“So… I’m your guest?” I try to lighten the mood, because otherwise I might as well spiral down a well of despair.
He leads me to the table where, at the end closest to the window are two placemats and a small spread of food .
“ Guest , I do like that,” he tells me, directing me to one of the chairs. I’m not even surprised when he then straps me to it, as if I were a toddler and might fall out of the seat. “Sounds much better than prisoner.”