But no, his hands are gentle now, almost clinical.
"Stay still," he commands, voice low and steady. Not angry anymore, but there's no room for argument. “I know what I’m doing. You can trust me.”
I hear the fridge door open, the rustle of something being wrapped.
Then, a soft pressure on my sore skin—an ice pack, covered in a thin cloth to blunt the shock. It's cold, so cold it makes me hiss through my teeth, but it soothes the sting almost immediately. Viktor holds it there, one hand on the small of my back to keep me steady, the other adjusting the pack methodically, like he's done this a hundred times.
Maybe he has.
Maybe I’m just another in a long line of boys to have felt the heat of his hand.
But right now, it’s just me and him.
The thought sends a shiver up my spine—not just from the ice.
"Breathe through it," he says. "It'll numb the heat."
I nod against the table, my cheek smooshed flat. Vulnerable doesn't even cover it. Here I am, bent over like a naughty boy, letting a mafia boss—Pakhan, whatever that means—tend to my spanked bottom.
And the worst part? It's working.
The fire eases, replaced by a dull throb that's almost... comforting? No, that's crazy. This whole thing is crazy. I tried to escape, and now I'm submitting to aftercare like it's normal.
Urgh. Normal. That seems a long time ago now.
He keeps the ice on for what feels like forever—minutes ticking by in silence, broken only by my shaky breaths and the hum of the fridge. I can feel his eyes on me, assessing. Not leering, but... protective? Possessive? I don't know.
My mind spins.
Why is he doing this? To make me trust him? Because as a witness, I'm a loose end. I saw him shoot that man—clean, cold, no hesitation. I could testify. I could ruin him. Is this all a game to keep me quiet until he decides what to do with me?
Finally, he lifts the pack away. My skin prickles in the sudden warmth of the room.
"Better?"
I mumble something likeyeah, not trusting my voice.
Viktor doesn't respond right away. Instead, I hear him rummaging in a drawer—first aid kit, maybe? Then he's back, squirting something onto his palm. The scent hits me: aloe, menthol, something soothing.
Cooling cream.
"This will help with any bruising," Viktor says, matter-of-fact. His fingers—big, callused, but surprisingly gentle—spread the cream over my cheeks in slow circles. I bite my lip to stifle a whimper.
It's intimate, too intimate.
I feel overwhelmed for a moment as my body reacts in ways that make me feel dizzy. The cream cools the remaining heat, but his touch... it sparks something else. Warmth pools low in my belly, and I hate myself for it.
He's a killer.
Obviously a criminal.
And yet, here I am, arching just a little under his hands.
When he's done, Viktor steps back. I stay bent over for a second longer, gathering myself, then push up slowly, pulling up my briefs and jeans with as much dignity as I can muster. My butt aches—a reminder that'll last until after the sun rises—but it's bearable now. I turn to face him, trying to avoid his eyes.
Viktor wipes his hands on a dish towel, then meets my gaze steadily.
"Was everything okay? Anything you didn't like?"
