I hold back a sob, but he’s not wrong.Iput myself in this position. “I just… I just wanted to…” Abduct you? Humiliate you? Kill you? What the fuck am I supposed to say? If he believes I intended to actually do even half of what’s in my notebook, he won’t spare me. “Please don’t hurtme.” Pathetic, but what options do I have left other than begging?
He clicks his tongue and puts the journal under his arm to show me that the bundle of leather is a collar with a leash attached. “What was that? Are you asking me to not do any of the things you were planning to do to me?”
At least he’s soft, so maybe the nakedness isn’t sexual. Maybe he’s simply unwilling to deal with bloodstains later? I don’t know which is worse. Will it appease him if I come willingly? What are my chances if I choose to fight him? If last night is any indication, I’ve already lost. I glance over his shoulder, at the open door, but with the wound in my leg, even running would be difficult.
“They’re just fantasies. Not real plans.”
Sevastyan tut-tuts. “The gun was real.”
Fuck. Maybe I deserve this.
“I’m sorry.”
“Be a good boy. I won’t hurt you,” he tells me, opening the collar and whistling, as if he expects me to come closer, like a well-trained dog.
And I do.
There’s no way I could meet his gaze as I approach, but of course I do as he asks, eyes on his feet. Eventheyare gorgeous—well-groomed, with soft skin and a peppering of hair. This is his territory, and he’ll treat me however he wants. It’s inevitable. All I can do is look for a way out while keeping him content.
I must not misconstrue this as a sex thing, because I’m already being humiliated enough.
“You’re such a good boy, Victor,” he tells me as the collar tightens around my neck, and something about the brief moment of choking pressure has me rising to my toes. No one’s ever pronounced my name quite like this, with the sharp precision of an artist applying the tiniest streak of pigment exactly where it belongs.
I’m struck silent as I look up, focusing on the dark brown beauty spot above the left corner of his mouth, and all of a sudden, I see myself kneeling in front of him and kissing his feet while he paints.
I’m a mess. My brain is a mess. ‘Good boy’ resonates in my skull like an echo, and I discreetly move my bound hands to cover my dick.
“Why are you naked?” I whisper, unsure if I’m even allowed questions.
He tests the leash with a gentle tug, then steps aside and points me to the hallway. “Who would I cover for? This is my kingdom, and I can be just as I am. So can you,” he adds once I step out of the room.
I guess it’s natural that such a perfect human specimen wants to see his reflection in the mirror at all times. “I do prefer clothes,” I try as he tugs me along. It’s hard to focus on remembering every detail of my surroundings when his naked body is right beside mine. He must have a home gym here. Why even paint when hisbodyis the work of art?
“Well, that’s not up to you anymore,” he tells me casually, and while I can’t feel his breath on my skin, he is a step behind me. It has my skin prickling as if his hands were right there, about to touch me. “But I keep the house warm. We will both be comfortable.”
This is surreal. Is he suggesting he’ll be keeping me here? That would mean he doesn’t plan to kill me yet, but there are things worse than death. I imagine that after reading my journal, he might want to hurt me just to prove a point.
There are so many mirrors in this corridor, and it’s impossible not to glimpse at him in each one. The next time I glance to the side, I see him smirking as he watches my… back?
Deep breaths.
No, Victor, Sevastyan isn’t ogling your freckly ass.
“And… um… how long exactly is this…” I don’t even know how to form coherent thoughts, torn between fear and outbursts of anger I need to stifle before they come out of my mouth.
“What? Are you asking how long this will last?” he says and points me to the right, eyes pinned to my backside as if he’s toying with the idea of roasting my butt cheeks for dinner. “Who knows? You better keep being as good as you’ve been this morning.”
I’m not a big risk-taker. Nor am I great with change, so this new situation he’s forcing me into is just as stressful as the sight of pliers next to my nipple.
I’m speechless as we enter the kitchen. The cookies are still there, hidden under a glass dome, but now I smell an umami scent reminiscent of chicken soup and eggs.
In daylight, the place is even more stunning. Large slabs of grey and black marble look as if they were carved out of the cliff, not brought here. Elegant bar stools sit next to the counter, and farther down, there’s a long table with six chairs that reminds me of photoshoots in one of those interior design magazines.
But the showstopper is the floor-to-ceiling window which floods the dining area with light even when the sky is as grey as today. The storm has passed, but rain still gently taps against glass.
If this is where he spends his days, no wonder he never leaves.
“So… I’m your guest?” I try to lighten the mood, because otherwise I might as well spiral down a well of despair.
