Scars stripe him in pale lines. One across his ribs. Another near his shoulder. Old marks worn smooth by time, and newer ones raised enough to catch the light.
I didn't know about these.
He has stood in front of me for years with his history pressed under cloth, and I never asked to read it.
"Turn around," I say.
He turns.
More scars. Across the shoulder blade. A long, jagged mark near the spine that makes my stomach churn. Some look like knife wounds. Some look like burns.
"Arms out."
He extends his arms, crucifix style.
I stand up. I set my empty glass down. I close the distance.
My hand is cold from the drink. I feel the contrast the moment my palm touches his back. He is warm. Alive. A heat that radiates through the room, making my fingers want to linger.
I move my hands as if searching. Along the scapula. Down the spine. Across the floating ribs. Checking the waistband where a wire could be taped.
I tell myself that's what I'm doing.
The truth is uglier: I am touching him because I can. Because I gave an order and he obeyed. Because the line between control and desire is razor-thin, and tonight I am walking on it barefoot.
I listen for a reaction. A twitch. A flinch. Any sign that he is human beneath the programming.
Maksim doesn't move. His breathing remains steady.
My fingers find the scar on his side—the thick one, ridged, running low along the ribcage. I trace it. The texture changes under my fingertips. Smooth skin. Scar tissue. Smooth skin.
"This one," I say, my voice dropping. "Is older."
"Yes."
"The Kennel."
"A match," he says. "I was a child."
The word lands like a punch to the throat.
A child.
I picture him smaller. Bare skin in the Russian cold. Blood on the snow. Instructors watching with bored eyes as boys tore each other apart for food. I picture the moment that scar opened, and I hate the years between then and now.
I move around him until I am facing him.
He still has his arms out. His eyes are fixed on a point past my shoulder, looking through the window rather than at the room. Waiting.
"You can lower your arms."
He does.
Now the distance is wrong. Too close. I can see the hollow of his throat, the faint shadow of his collarbone. I can see the swallow working in his neck. I can see the small pulse beating there.
I lift my hand.
I press two fingers to that pulse point.
