“You’re not going to disobey me again, are you?” I say, quiet.
He shakes his head, tears streaming down his face.
“Good boy,” I whisper, and kiss the top of his head gently.
He lies on the leather, hair pasted to his face with tears and sweat. I brush the hair away, thumb gentle on his cheek, and he flinches—not from pain, but from the unfamiliarity of the gesture.
“What are you gonna do to me now?” He whimpers.
“Shh,” I say, “it’s done.”
I gather him up, arms under his shoulders and knees. He’s not heavy, but his limbs are leaden, unwilling to function. I carry him across the cold concrete to the adjoining bath, a narrow tile room with a soaking tub and a shower that could blast the skin off a corpse.
I set him on the closed lid of the toilet, then start the water running. The heat fogs up the glass, fills the room with steam. When it’s the right temperature, I test it on my wrist, then guide him in. He sinks into the bath without a sound, his body folding in on itself, arms hugging his knees to his chest.
For a while, neither of us speak. I kneel beside the tub and ladle warm water over his back, rinsing off the cum and the lube and everything else. He’s shivering, but not from cold. I soap up a sponge, scrub him clean in small, slow circles, careful not to touch the places I know will be sore for days.
When I reach for his hair, he leans in, letting me wash it. I work my fingers into the roots, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn’t open his eyes, but I see the tension bleed out of his jaw, the lines in his forehead softening.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You just destroyed me.”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, no hesitation. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
He processes this, then nods once, a jerky, fragile movement.
I towel him off when he’s done, wrap him up and sit him on the toilet lid again. His skin is a map of marks—red, purple, blue. I grab the jar of ointment from the medicine cabinet and dip two fingers in. The stuff is cold, menthol-scented. I dab it on the welts, massaging it in until the shine returns to his battered skin.
He hisses at the first touch, but after that he’s silent.
“You ever been taken care of?” I ask, because the answer is obvious. “Turn over.”
He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor as I work the ointment into the flesh of his ass.
I run my fingers down his arm, wrist to elbow, and say, “Well, as much as I’ll destroy you, I’ll also make sure you don’t break.”
When the ointment’s all rubbed in, I put the jar away and pull him into my lap, letting him curl up against my chest. He tucks his head under my chin and just… stays.
We sit there for a long time, his breath warming the hollow of my throat, his heart beating in sync with mine.
Finally, I say, “You needed to understand.”
He nods.
“And you need to understand what I’m risking by keeping you alive.”
He looks up, surprise flickering in his eyes.
I kiss him on the forehead, slow and careful. “You’re not a liability anymore,” I say, voice low. “You’re my necessity. I’ll protect you from everyone else, but not from me. Never from me.”
He shudders, but doesn’t let go.
I hold him until his breathing slows, until his body relaxes completely against mine.
Early tomorrow, the world will try to take him from me. The Silent will send their best, and I’ll be ready.
For now, I let him sleep.
A few hours delay in moving won’t hurt.
