✧ 67 | Maid Game ✧
Ilya was alone in Beast's lair once again, burdened with a disgusting task—cleaning the place spotless.
He had to navigate around mold, empty food cans, dried blood, a stained mattress, layers of dust and rust, vomit left behind by previous victims, pages from a Hot Babes magazine crusted with dried bodily fluids, and countless other forms of filth he couldn't begin to imagine.
It would take forever to mop this room clean by hand, and the tight, revealing dress did not make the task any easier.
The dress left too much of him exposed. The freezing air seeped through every crack in the room, brushing against his bare skin until goosebumps covered his legs. He hugged himself for warmth, but it did little to stop the shivers running through his body.
Ilya filled the bucket with soap and water, and dipped the mop inside. With only one good hand, wringing it out was a nightmare. Every twist sent a sharp pain through his broken wrist.
Still, he scrubbed.
Every sweep of the mop stirred the stench back to life.
Rot. Mold. Old blood. Sour vomit.
The smell crawled into Ilya's nose and settled at the back of his throat. More than once, he had to stop and press a trembling hand over his mouth, swallowing hard as his stomach lurched. He refused to throw up. Not until he was done.
He kept cleaning.
The dried blood clung stubbornly to the floor.
So did the vomit, mold, dirt, and years of filth.
Each stain took several passes before it finally surrendered.
It was slow, exhausting work. Every few minutes he had to stop, catch his breath, and flex his aching fingers before forcing himself to continue.
The water in the bucket turned into a murky reddish-brown, and sweat dripped from Ilya's forehead by the time he was done.
The floor was left soaking wet.
Unable to use the mop properly anymore, he grabbed the pile of old sheets from the corners and dragged them across the floor.
One by one, he pushed them around with his feet, using his weight to soak them up.
When that wasn't enough, he knelt and dragged the fabric across the floor with his free hand, wincing each time he accidentally jarred the cast on his wrist.
When the room was finally dry, he bundled the filthy, waterlogged sheets into his arms and carried them into the bathroom.
The corpse was still lying where it had been.
Ilya kept his eyes fixed on the floor as he tossed the sheets over it, covering the lifeless figure from head to toe. The stained fabric hid the vacant face from view, leaving only an uneven mound beneath the cloth.
Only then did he let out a quiet breath.
At least now, whenever he came in here to relieve himself, he wouldn't have to feel those dead eyes staring back at him.
His stomach finally gave in.
He doubled over the sink, retching until the little he had eaten came back up.
Ilya wiped his mouth and slid down the wall, breathing heavily. Now that the cleaning was finally done, he could relax.
Then a thud echoed from somewhere outside the room.
Curious, he walked to the door and peered through the keyhole. Across the hallway, another room stood open to the winter night. Snow drifted inside from what looked like a broken window, and the moonlight caught every swirling flake, bathing the room in an almost ethereal glow.
Then Ilya frowned.
That wasn't a window.
It was the opening in the wall—the very entrance he had used to step into this hospital of the damned.
He was so close to, yet so far from, freedom.
There was a body of some animal on the floor of that room. Then a large figure obscured the moonlight; a figure with fur and claws—a werewolf.
Ilya stumbled backward. He crawled until his hand touched Beast's rotten excuse for a bed. He pulled the blankets over himself just as Beast's footsteps grew louder with every stride.
When the door unlocked, Ilya froze. He felt his heart drop to his feet. He stared at the doorknob, watching it slowly twist, dreading Beast's arrival.
The door opened to Beast in his Viking human form, carrying a deer on his shoulders. The deer's throat was slashed open, soaking his fur coat with fresh blood.
"Honey," Beast singsonged. "I'm home."
He dropped the deer, its torso shredded and its neck torn open, onto the clean floor, erasing hours of hard work in a single second.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Beast clicked his tongue and shook his head. "I see you haven't cleaned at all."
But Ilya did clean. He cleaned for hours, hungry and tired, with no break. To dismiss his hard work with an impossible task left him frustrated, but mostly afraid—afraid of Beast's punishment.
It was a game, after all.
Everything was a cruel game to Beast.
Ilya dreaded what was coming next. He tried to defend himself, but the words couldn't make it past his quivering lips.
"Fine." Beast sighed, looking at the messy floor. "I'll give you another chance."
Ilya breathed a sigh of relief.
"Start mopping the mess you caused here."
Ilya wanted to strangle Beast more than ever, but instead he climbed off the mattress, grabbed one of the dirty sheets, and dropped to all fours.
"Yes, sir," Ilya said with burning tears in his eyes.
He began wiping up the mess Beast had made. He mopped, but the deer was in the way; its big, dead, glossy eyes were staring at him.
Ilya shivered and continued mopping his way around the deer. In the midst of his task, he felt a cold air fanning his butt. He glanced behind him and found that Beast had lifted the skirt of his dress, checking his ass.
Beast was enjoying the view, especially the blush that spread across the boy's face.
"Hey!" Ilya yelled, covering himself. "Stop doing that." He swatted Beast's hand away. "It's not funny."
Then he gasped and put a hand on his mouth. He couldn't believe he stood up for himself, and against none other than Beast. He slowly removed his hand and watched Beast's dumbfounded expression.
"Sorry, sir."
This was bad.
Real bad.
Not only did he raise his voice at a lunatic psychopath, but he dared to hit him too.
An awkward silence settled over the room. The two males stared at each other—one pair of eyes wide with terror, the other clouded with confusion.
Then.
"Hahahahahahaha!"
A burst of laughter broke the silence.
Beast clutched his stomach, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as though he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. He couldn't believe this little human had actually slapped him. No one had ever dared lay a hand on him before.
The fit of laughter overwhelmed him. He dropped to the floor, gasping for air between cackles.
"Wooh!" Beast finally breathed. "I like you, kid." He wiped his tears. "I wish I could keep you forever."
There it was again—that awful phrase Ilya had heard twice already: once from Billy, and now from Beast himself. There was a strange connection between Billy's subconscious and Beast's, one that scared the hell out of Ilya.