The contact is light at first. I feel his pulse hammering beneath my palm.
“Breathe,” I tell him. “Focus on my voice. If you say stop, this ends. No consequences. Do you understand?”
He nods. His eyes remain locked on mine, pupils dilated.
I increase the pressure on his throat.
Not enough to cause damage. Just enough to restrict airflow. Just enough to make him aware of my control. I watch his lips. I watch capillary refill. I count his pulse against my palm.
His reaction is immediate: a small gasp, a reflexive surge against the restraints, and then—relaxation.
He is not fighting. He is surrendering.
“The codes are buried deep,” I say. “Your father put them behind a wall of fear. We need to go through that wall.”
I increase the pressure further. His airway constricts. His chest heaves. His eyes go wide, panic flickering in their depths, and I can feel his pulse accelerating—climbing toward the territory where fear and arousal become indistinguishable.
This is not punishment. This is access.
“Stay with me,” I tell him. “Focus on my eyes. You are safe. I will not let you go.”
The panic recedes slightly. Something else rises to meet it.
Trust. Despite everything I have done, he trusts me.
I hold the pressure steady. I watch his face cycle through expressions he cannot control. His body has begun to move against the restraints, small rhythmic motions. His skin has flushed pink.
“The codes,” I say. “Where are they?”
He shakes his head, confusion clouding his gaze.
I release the pressure. He gasps, lungs filling greedily.
“Again,” he whispers. “Do it again.”
I was not expecting this response. But Nikolai is looking at me with an intensity that mirrors something I have been trying to ignore in myself.
He wants this.
“Nod if you want it again.”
He nods. Without hesitation.
I apply the pressure again, more firmly this time. His eyes flutter, his body arches against the restraints, and the sound he makes is unmistakably a moan.
“The codes,” I repeat. “Let me in.”
“Can’t—Papa’s voice?—”
“Your father is not here.” I lean closer, my face inches from his. “Your father buried you. Your father’s voice has no power here.”
Something shifts in his expression. The conflict resolves.
“You’re here,” he gasps. “You’re the only one who stayed.”
“Give me the codes, Nikolai.”
“Seven—” He chokes. “Seven-four-nine-echo-november-three-three-one. Primary account. Zurich.”
