Chapter 25
Tobias
The message went out at dawn. I composed it from Cove’s computer, mimicking his spelling and cadence, and sent it to Mark’s institutional address with a subtle, apologetic subject line: “So Sorry — Hope to See You?” There was a practiced humility to the words, an appeal to Mark’s sense of professional pride.
Cove’s new employer was a bit of a control freak, it explained, but the work was incredibly cool, and Cove was finally allowed to design and run his own systems. The offer was simple.
Come up for a private tour, check out the rare specimens, and maybe help Cove with a tricky new quarantine protocol.
Personally, I felt it was a little odd for Mark to be concerned enough with Cove’s perceived absence to call my company twice trying to reach me for insights on Cove’s whereabouts.
Mark and Cove certainly weren’t friends, and the way I saw it, Mark hadn’t really even liked Cove.
Perhaps it was more of a jealously fueled worry? After all, in his eyes, Cove was still wet behind the ears, inexperienced, yet had been chosen over him for a cushy, high-paying job.
I imagined him pacing his office, gnawing his nails, unable to believe that the little American intern—so sensitive, so awkward—had been chosen over him for a position most people in their field would have killed to get.
Mark’s “concern” for Cove was nothing less than a festering wound, and I was more than happy to pour salt in it.
There was, of course, the remote possibility that Mark’s interest was motivated by something other than professional jealousy.
Perhaps there had been a friendship I had missed, some secret kinship between them, but I doubted it.
In the hundreds of hours I’d devoted to studying Cove, I’d never once seen him mention Mark with anything but a stiff politeness, not wanting to talk badly about a superior.
Mark replied in under an hour to the email. He’d love to see Cove’s new setup. He’d be there in three days.
The waiting was exquisite.
I spent more time in Cove’s orbit, shadowing him as he worked, touching him at every excuse. Sometimes he’d tease me, imitating my voice or mannerisms, and I’d let him push the boundaries because he was beautiful when he thought he had the upper hand.
On the second night, around midnight, I brought him into my office.
He wore only a t-shirt; hair still wet from showering. He perched on the edge of my desk, legs swinging, eyeing the little velvet pouch I’d placed between us.
“Are you giving me jewelry?” he asked, voice pitched in a mockery of hopefulness.
“Not exactly,” I said, and tipped the contents onto the desk—a set of surgical steel dilators, polished to a shine.
He stared at them for a long second, then up at me, and in that glance, I saw the challenge and the hunger and the magnitude of his trust.
“Last time, you took the thinnest one. I want to see if you can take the next size up now.”
“Okay,” he breathed.
I guided him to the couch, worked him out of his shirt, and kissed him until he sank against the cushions.
“I want to know everything,” I whispered, “how you feel, what you think, when it’s too much.”
He nodded, a little breathless.
I started by pressing my mouth to his neck, his collarbone, and the hollow of his chest, savoring the salt and warmth of his skin.
He arched when I rolled his nipple between my fingers, so I did it again, and again.
And when he was slick and leaking from the nipple play, I took the mid-size sound from the set, dipped it in sterile lube, and held it up for him to see.
“Ready?”
He nodded, biting his lip. His eyes—so wide, so preternaturally bright—shuddered shut as I began to guide the instrument home. It went easier this time, less resistance, less panic, but the way he drew in his breath still made my own cock pulse with arousal.
I was always gentle at first, unable to tear my eyes from where the metal was disappearing into his dickhole. He took it all, gasping, and then at last opened his eyes to look at me.
“Pretty little siren,” I cooed, holding eye contact as I pulled the tool up and almost all the way out of him.
He whimpered, and I kissed him hard, forcing his jaw open so I could taste his moan. I kept working the sound, in and out relentlessly of his cock, until the muscles in his forearms went tight and his hands clutched at the fabric of my suit jacket.
When his head finally dropped back against the cushion, exposing his pale, lovely throat, a desperate mewl escaped him.
I reached up with my free hand to stroke the rapidly fluttering pulse at his neck; fingertips lined along the blue track of his jugular.
The vulnerability of it, the utter trust, undid something in me.
“Perfect,” I told him. “You’re absolutely perfect. Do you like Daddy fucking your slutty cock?”
He squirmed, face damp with tears, throat bobbing with the effort to form words. “I—yes—” His hips gave a shallow jerk and the shaft bucked around the steel, the thin skin there blanched and angry at the stretch. “It’s so—” he bit down on the syllable, then whimpered, “too much—I can’t—”
But he could.
He was shuddering against the couch, limp except for the death grip in my lapel, his entire being distilled down to sensation and response.
When I hit the inner limit—a tiny, rubbery injunction deep inside him—he yelped as if startled by his own body.
I left the sound in, just a little, and ran my tongue along the curve of his ear.
He let out a strangled groan, and the next thing I knew, Cove was coming, rocking gently in my grip, tremors traveling the length of his body.
I tugged the sound free, unbothered by the gush of white spend that splattered onto my hand and fumbled a trembling Cove onto my lap.
He was a ragdoll, pliant and soft, all fight burned out of him.
I cradled his head in my hands and kissed him again, softer and slower, indulging in the fact that this beautiful creature was all mine.
He hummed against my mouth, a little airy “mmm” that felt almost bashful, and when I drew back to look him in the eye, he held my gaze for a long time without blinking.
“Are you okay?” I asked, brushing strands of hair from his face.
“Mhm,” he purred.
The next night, I brought out the suction cups.
I’d ordered them on a whim, but the moment I pressed one to his nipple and set the pump, his entire body reacted as if I’d delivered a jolt of electricity.
I watched with fascination as the suction brought his nipples up into fat, dark peaks that begged to be bitten. I worked his cock with one hand and his chest with the other, alternating between the pumps and my teeth until he was gasping, hips rolling up in search of friction.
When I finally let him come, I left the cups on until he whined, then pulled them off and licked the swollen buds, savoring the way he shivered.
On the third day, Mark arrived.
He wore an ill-fitting sport coat and a mask of professional cheer, but I could see the suspicion in the way he scanned the foyer, the way his eyes swept the aquarium displays behind me looking for movement.
I greeted him with a fake smile and a handshake, keeping the door open just long enough for him to see the security panel and the silent, watching Ben at the kitchen pass-through.
“Welcome,” I said. “Cove is just finishing up a water change in the main system. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?”
Mark hesitated, then nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”
He followed me into the kitchen, his gaze flicking to every doorway, every corridor, as if he expected to see Cove dart across the threshold. I made him coffee, black, and sat across from him at the bar, infinitely amused when his lips pinched from the taste.
“I’m glad you could make the drive,” I said. “Cove’s spoken very highly of you.”
Mark sipped the coffee, his hands shaking a little. “He’s a great kid. Sharp. I was worried about him, to be honest. I hadn’t heard from him, and—well, you know how it is.”
I smiled, all teeth. “It’s difficult to keep up with old friends when you’re as busy as he is.”
Mark nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. “I’d love to see him, if he’s available.”
“He’ll be along in a moment,” I lied.
I gave him the tour, walking him through the aquarium wing, the humidity and light pressing in as we moved from tank to tank.
He fired off questions, some technical, some personal, all with an edge of urgency I found almost charming.
I answered each one with absolute clarity, never once giving him a foothold.
He kept looking for Cove, kept glancing at his phone as if expecting a text message to rescue him.
When we reached the quarantine room, I keyed in the code and gestured for him to enter first.
He hesitated on the threshold. “Is Cove in there?”
“He’s waiting for you,” I said, and followed him in.
The door closed behind us with a soft magnetic click.
Mark turned, and I let him see something in my face that wasn’t hospitality.
“You’re not going to leave this place alive,” I told him. “You understand that, don’t you?”
He stepped back, eyes wide, shoulders bunching to run.
Mark’s mouth opened. “What the fuck—”
Ben moved faster than I expected, which was saying something. He came from behind the door, a blur of navy shirt and latex-gloved hands and caught Mark by the biceps. Mark struggled, but Ben had the leverage, and in one expert motion, he jabbed the syringe into the soft inside of Mark’s forearm.
It was not the kind of drug that knocked you out right away.
It paralyzed, locking the skeletal muscles in place, but left the brain outside the blood-brain barrier untouched.
I saw the recognition on Mark’s face as the first wave of paralysis hit—the jaw slackening, the whites of his eyes showing stark against the panic blooming there.
“You’ll be able to hear me, Mark,” I said, moving into his field of vision.
I took his glasses off, folded them, set them gently on the counter next to the quarantine tank.
“This is a neuromuscular blocking agent. In about thirty seconds, you’ll be unable to move.
In about two minutes, you’ll be completely paralyzed.
But you will feel everything. You’ll be aware of everything. Isn’t that exciting?”
He tried to lurch, but his legs gave out as the nerves in his thighs went dead.
Ben caught him before he could crumple to the floor, eased him down with a gruff sort of care, and arranged him so the paralysis would set in with the minimum chance of skull fracture or embarrassing loss of urine.
Even in the final moments of its victim, Ben’s professionalism was absolute.
I crouched next to Mark, watching the diaphragm fight for one, two, three more breaths before the involuntary spasms set in. The muscles of the chest hitched, a grotesque choreography, then stilled. His tongue lolled, eyes bugging from the effort to scream.
“Good,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You’re acclimating well.
This is what researchers call ‘lock-in syndrome,’” I explained, tapping two fingers lightly on his forehead.
“Unlike true brain death, you’ll be able to process everything right up until the last synaptic flicker.
Some researchers think the subject’s awareness is actually heightened in this state.
Every tick of the clock, every shift of light, every thrum of your pulse…
and I imagine each microgram of pain, too. ”
Mark’s gaze darted around in panic.
“Now, I want you to know, this isn’t personal.
You could have minded your own business.
You could have let Cove just have his opportunity.
But you had to chase, didn’t you? You couldn’t leave it alone.
I do respect that—‘the pursuit of knowledge at all costs’—but you understand, Mark, that you are now a specimen. That’s all.”
His head rolled to the side; the only movement left to him before the real fun started. He would sense every word, every gesture, every spike of my attention—and he would remember it, if only for the few hours of consciousness I gifted him.
I leaned in close, lips almost brushing the shell of his ear.
“Now, you have a few options to choose from. The Hydrophis cyanocinctus—blue-banded sea krait—has a venom ten times more potent than a cobra. Human fatalities from sea snakes are rare, but that’s mainly because they only become aggressive if threatened.
An unknown human disrupting the peace of their tank would definitely be considered a threat, I think.
Still, in this case, you’d probably die from respiratory failure, not their venom.
It typically takes a few hours to become fatal, and you most certainly do not have that much time left. ”
He blinked, once, slow as syrup. I took it for assent.
“Or perhaps you’d enjoy the Chironex fleckeri,” I continued, savoring the syllables.
“The infamous box jelly, as I’m sure you know.
Its venom acts within minutes, and if you’re lucky, your heart stops before your nervous system realizes what’s happening.
If you’re less lucky, the pain is so excruciating that even seasoned ER physicians have described grown men begging for bullets.
I’ll admit, part of me is curious to see which you would be—not that you’ll be able to beg, of course. ”
“There’s a third option,” I added. “Callorhinchus milii, the ghost shark. Not a true shark, but a member of the chimaeras. They have a venomous spine, rare for a chondrichthyan, but I’ve been told the pain is like being filleted with a hot wire.
While the literature is limited, there have been accounts of its victims’ amputating limbs in order to escape from the pain.
It most likely wouldn’t kill you, unless you have a heart attack from the pain itself. ”
Mark’s eyes, which had begun to glaze in self-pity, snapped into sharp, terrified focus again.
I straightened, brushed the dust from Mark’s shoulder with the edge of my cuff and smiled.
“If you had to choose, Mark, how would you prefer to go? Sea snake, jelly, or a nice neat row of ghost shark stings? Maybe one in each limb, to keep it fair, or would you rather I just snap your neck when I get bored?” I watched the war in his eyes, the animal scrabble for a line out—a denial, a protest, some last-minute bargain—but his body, hollowed out by the paralysis, could only drool and sag.
I turned to Ben, who admittedly looked fed up with me. He’d told me before that the way I become so animated when I’m about to kill is something deserving of a horror movie.
“Stay with him,” I instructed Ben. “If he goes into arrest, you know what to do. I need to go have a discussion with Cove.”