by Nero Seal
“Here …” With the lift of his chin, Talha gestured to the small middle-aged woman, dressed in a black abaya[17]. A black hijab[18] covered her hair; she kept her eyes downcast. “... the staff is off-limits. Understand?”
“Where does Master sleep?” Slater’s foot tapped the floor.
“Second floor. Down the corridor. Why?”
“Slater should learn the rooms so Slater can protect.”
“Do as you please.” Brushing his new assassin off, Talha hurried upstairs. His hands still shook with adrenaline; gunfire echoed in his ears, and his head was splitting apart. The fresh stitches on his head, where the bullet caught him, ached, annoying him further. He needed to sleep before he could think of what to do next.
THE OMINOUS PRESENCE PUNCHED Talha out of his sleep, tightening every nerve in his body. He wasn’t sure what woke him up, but the haunting feeling of someone looking at him sent a chilly rush down his body. Reaching the nightstand, Talha switched the lamp on. Golden light illuminated the room.
Blood rushed to his head, his heart stuttering.
“What the fuck?” he growled, watching Slater’s full lips stretch into an innocent smile. Wearing only sweatpants, Slater sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, snuggling with a huge bowl. His spare hand tirelessly sent one popcorn ball after another into his mouth. The sweet smell of butter and caramel suffused the air, joining the low crunchy sound. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Learning the rooms, Master.”
“Why the fuck are you doing it at night? Get the fuck out!”
Slater’s cheek twitched as he stretched out his words. “No. You sleep. I’ll watch. Unless you are scared of me, Master.”
What the hell? Confused, lost, alert, Talha stared into the handsome features of the younger man, unable to understand what the hell he wanted. Not sure what to do, he kicked the blanket off, got up, strolled up to a tall mashrabiya[19] window, and pried the wooden shutter open. The night wind, breaking in, caressed his face, calming his nerves.
“Let’s make something clear, Slater.” He wasn’t sure where the calm voice came from, because his soul boiled with anger, but when he turned around, the younger man listened with attention. “You aren’t allowed in my room unless I order you to come.”
Slater’s smile fell, but he didn’t stop eating. “Why?”
“Why?” Talha repeated, dumbfounded. “Because it’s my room.”
“So?”
“So you aren’t allowed in here. Leave or I’ll throw you out of the window.”
Slater’s jaw stopped working. He got up from the bed, shuffled to the window, and shoved the popcorn bowl into Talha’s chest. His naked torso moved with a slow, imposing grace, but his eyes lost their spark.
“It’s better for everyone if Master gets used to Slater sooner, rather than later. Slater will leave today, but Slater will sleep here tomorrow. If you want to have Iblīs, you have to forget about your privacy. Get used to me, or our deal will come to a rather sudden end, Master.”
Talha didn’t know what to say, except, “Why do you want to sleep here? Don’t you like your room? We can redecorate it...”
“Huh? Master is funny,” Slater said without a shadow of a smile before strolling out of the room.
What the hell…
TOSSING IN HIS BED, Talha tried to understand what had happened and what Slater expected from him, but the answers eluded him. Adrenaline wiped the sleep from his head, leaving only small, neurotic tremors in his fingertips. When the first red beams of the awakening sun sneaked into his bedroom weariness took him, plunging him into a heavy, thick sleep.
He dreamed about the old mosque, gunfire, and the bloody map decorated with organs. The fireplace crackled, chewing on wood with toothy flames. But instead of Behçet, he was the one lying on the floor with his arms spread to the sides. Throwing knives, stabbing through his palms, secured his hands to the ground as Slater took one of his organs after another, and pinned them to the map. When his split open stomach emptied, Slater slumped down onto his chest. The piercing ice of his cold gaze searched Talha’s face and fingers reached out to his eye.
“No, no, no, no…” Talha tossed his head from one side to another, trying to escape, but the scorching clamps of Slater’s fingers seized Talha’s jaw. Digging into his eye, the fingers seized his eyeball, squeezed it. A keen pain jolted through Talha’s head, stripping his scream of sound.
PRESENT
A MERCILESS KICK TO HIS RIBS kicked Talha out of the nightmare into the cold, painful reality. Lungs screaming for air, he wanted to fold over, but the evil restrictions, biting into his wrists, kept him sprawled. The air he drew through his nose wasn’t enough to fill his lungs, and black flies congested his sight. Through his marred vision, he registered Slater’s tall frame towering over him. A massive leather boot neared his face and nudged his left cheek.
Talha’s head swirled, his swollen tongue refused to move in his dried-up mouth, and not a single drop of saliva moistened his throat. He blinked. His eyelids scratched against his eyeballs as if invisible sand filled his eyes.
He didn’t remember blacking out, but now, looking at Slater’s military boot, he wasn’t sure what he preferred more, the painful reality or the nightmare from his past.
The first gray morning light snaked into the chamber through the air grille. The sound of dripping water, resounding in his consciousness, intensified his thirst. He tried to move, but his immobile limbs felt alien to his body and barely responded with a weak twitch.
He groaned his desperation, concentrating on Slater. Dressed in a tight-fitting white shirt and blue jeans, Slater looked refreshed, well-rested. His slim fingers dipped into a brown paper bag, fished out a piece of baklava, dripping in syrup, and tossed it into his mouth. His lashes trembled closed as he moaned.
You, son of a bitch! Rage rippled through Talha’s core, painting the world in red. Roaring, he threw his body forward, testing the limits of the ropes, then again and again, until his wrists ached. White nothingness replaced his thoughts, and if not for the restraints, he would have probably killed Slater on the spot. No one had ever disrespected him like this. People died from his hand for a lesser insult.
Blue eyes flew open, and Slater glanced down.
“What is it, Master?” he asked innocently, tossing another pastry into his mouth. “You want some too?”
His fingers disappeared into the paper bag and reappeared carrying a dripping piece of pistachio baklava. He squatted down by Talha’s side and smeared the syrup all over the duct tape. Leaning in, he licked Talha’s glued lips.
Talha lurched forward, trying to grant Slater with another headbutt, but the assassin recoiled, then chuckled. “So energetic. I assume your night with Hanım went well?”
Without waiting for the reply, Slater got to his feet and strolled toward the door, where a black backpack stood propped against the wall.
“Thirsty?” His unstable voice echoed in the room. Bending forward, he fished a plastic water bottle out of the backpack. Giving Talha a wide, toothy smile, Slater wandered back, swaying the bottle in the air. Talha’s gaze glued to the clear liquid; the hypnotic movements consumed his attention. “So?”
Unsure how to respond, Talha granted him with a long stare, trying to figure out what game Slater played. Overstepping Talha’s sprawled leg, Slater came to his face.
“Rub your face against my boot. Beg me to spare you.” His hard, cold voice rung in the silence, multiplied by the dull echo. “Do that, and I will let you drink.”
Son of a bitch! Talha’s jaw clenched, hands formed fists, and he heard his teeth screech. The mental slap Slater’s words provided evaporated the numbness out of his consciousness.
The corner of Slater’s mouth curled up as he unscrewed the lid and made a few deep swallows. His Adam’s apple jumped the last time, before Slater filled his mouth with water, gargled, then spat it on the ground.
A molten ball of fire shot through Talha’s core up to his
throat. His nails bit into his palms.
“No? You aren’t thirsty…” Squatting down by Talha’s face, Slater flipped the bottle bottom up, pouring the remains of water on the ground. “Too bad...”
Fucker!
“Anyway, I have a surprise for you!” Eagerly nodding, Slater threw the empty bottle away. “But… Let me show!”
Movements jumpy, he sprinted to his backpack. Hand diving in, he extracted a long, bluish arm.
What the fuck? Talha’s throat closed, as Slater waved the severed limb in the air.
“Nice?” He smiled, his words dripping with hatred as they left his twisted mouth. “Now, you can truly enjoy your time with Hanım. See how kind I am?”
Fingers wrapping around Camilla’s elbow, Slater lay her delicate palm on his other hand, then brought it to his face, and placed a kiss on each of her fingernails.
No. Stop… He tried to speak, the words bubbling in his throat died out, choked by the duct tape.
“Everything you wish for comes true, Talha. You wanted Hanım? You can enjoy her all you want. You wanted Iblīs? Here I am, ready to fulfill your every dark desire.” Face unreadable, Slater moved toward Talha. His military boots stopped between his prisoner’s spread legs; he fell to his knees. “Slater will do everything for Master like Slater has always done. Even now, I’ll help you enjoy your time with Hanım.”
The ice of the dead fingers landed on Talha’s stomach, making him shudder and writhe. Slowly crawling up his torso, they stumbled over the hollows of his rigid muscles, scraping him with long nails. Clenching his teeth, Talha jerked, as the helplessness gutted him, and poisoned every cell with cold, sticky desperation.
“What is it, Master?” Slater's voice was dark and trembling, as he glued fake concern to his face. “Aren’t you happy? Or doesn’t Hanım touch you in the right places?”
Palm pressed against the ground, Slater leaned his weight on his left arm and slanted forward. The rough fabric of his black pants rubbed against Talha’s thighs while he guided Camilla’s hand up Talha’s neck, then over his face.
An animalistic roar crashed against Talha’s glued lips, scratching the back of his throat. Avoiding the icy touch that reeked of death, he whipped his head to the right, and his eyes met Camilla’s deadly glare.
“Yes, Master. Here it is. Look at her. Look at your bride.” The notes in Slater’s voice grew darker, but spikes of high-pitched vowels screamed of his mental frenzy. Camilla’s hand disappeared from Talha’s face, and landed over his stomach, as Slater sat back on his heels. “Look only at her. Don’t you think she deserves it? After all, she died for you.”
Talha jolted, as Camilla’s frigid fingers slunk down his lower belly, outlined the triangle of his pubic hair, and landed over his cock. Swamped by fury, Talha thrashed against the ground. His eyes burned, blood vessels in his head strained with pressure, ready to burst any moment.
Under his glare, the ripper’s features wrenched with a painful mix of anguish and contempt.
“No!” he hissed, swaying the dead arm in the air, and the icy hand flogged Talha across his cheek, smacking his head back to Camilla’s dead face. “Don’t look at me. Look at her while she’s pleasing you.”
Talha clenched his teeth, glaring at the ripper. Slater’s face was red, lips parted, and his chest rose and fell in a rugged, heavy rhythm.
“I said, look at her!” Slumping forward, he rested his belly on top of Talha’s.
An evil palm smacked his ear. Forcing Talha’s face to the side, it imprinted his right cheek into the grainy floor. The heel of Slater’s palm, pressed on the tender spot of Talha’s jaw hinge, intensified the soul-shredding feeling of powerlessness. “You did it to her.”
Why is he doing this? He’s never tortured anyone for days before. If he is this pissed, why am I still alive. What’s holding him back?
Peering into the dead eyes, Talha wondered why Slater had snapped to begin with?
If I didn’t know Slater, I’d think he was jealous, but that’s not possible. He is a pureblooded psychopath. He isn’t capable of any complex emotions. And all of his ex-masters had lovers or wives. He never killed any of them. Why did my relationship with her bug him this much if it wasn’t jealousy? What did Camilla do to provoke such strong hatred? Unless she said that he belonged to her.
Talha squeezed his eyes, resting them for a minute.
This must be why he snapped. This is why he said I submitted to a pussy. He thinks I gave him to her so he is pissed.
Talha had made Slater angry so many times. He’d teased him to the breaking point but never before had he pushed Slater too far. Always knowing that he shared his bed with a cold-hearted murderer, he still failed to see who Slater truly was. Annoying, exhausting, bratty, spoiled, perverted, rude, troublesome, needy, yet cute, funny, entertaining, different, selfish—Slater was many things, but only now Talha realized, that he had long forgotten what it was like to fear Slater. Despite Slater slaughtering his bodyguard and the woman he’d intended to marry; despite the kidnapping and rape, something in Talha’s mind refused to believe that Slater could truly harm him. Until now.
Staring into Camilla’s dead eyes, Talha stopped fighting.
“YES, LIKE THIS…” Slater clenched his teeth and guided Camilla’s hand down Talha’s crotch. Her icy fingers touched his soft cock, making him shudder in revulsion, but Talha never attempted to avert his face from hers again. A red bruise, marring his cheek puffed, and for some reason, Slater hated that it wasn’t his hand that had tainted Master’s face, but hers.
A pang of jealousy shot through Slater’s chest, and he forced the dead hand between Talha’s legs, rubbing the bluish, icy digits against his balls and cock.
“How does it feel, Master?” His voice trembled, as the mental turmoil grew stronger. “Nice?”
Rougher, faster, he worked the dead hand up and down Talha’s groin, but the act only tightened his chest with anger. Talha’s muscles and veins strained under his skin. Slater darted a worried glance down, fearing to see if Master got hard, yet wanting it. Left by Camilla’s long nails, reddening scratches hatched Talha’s soft skin.
This woman… Even after death, even without her body, she still managed to irritate Slater. She still managed to stay special to Master. Hatred clenched his heart, as Slater couldn’t tear his focus away from yet another mark that this woman left on Master’s body. Unable to contain his mixed feelings, he howled, drew back, and tossed the dead arm away. He never looked back, but heard a dull sound and then one more, as the limb hit the wall, before falling onto the floor.
No one can touch Master. The hand doesn’t belong. Master belongs to Slater. Master should learn it.
With a cruel hand, he undid his belt, snapped the button on his pants open, then pulled out his cock. Giving it a few strokes, he felt a familiar blood rush, streaming to his groin along with searing heat.
Only Slater can have Master. Master can never escape.
Spitting on his palm, he smeared the saliva all over his length, shoved one fist under the small of Talha’s back to lift his hips, then forced his way into Talha’s body.
BLOOD BOILED AND ROARED IN SLATER’S EARS, flooding everything with the loud drumming of his heart, except the fast, slapping sounds of flesh hitting wet flesh. Streams of sweat rushed down his cheeks. Gathering at the edges of his face, the cooling drops dripped down and crashed against Talha’s red, pained face.
Watching the tossing head and the agony clouding Talha’s dilated pupils, Slater hung torn between contradictory desires: to hurt Talha more, so the man would never be able to forget him, or untie him and lick the blood off his wrists and ankles.
The acrid mix of his saliva and sweat proved a poor substitute for a lube. Talha’s body resisted the intrusion, but eventually loosened up, engulfing him in blissful heat.
The more Slater stared at Talha, the more he understood: there was no road back. If Slater doesn’t kill Master, Master will kill Slater. The thought shifted somet
hing in his core. With every second, the suction in the depth of his stomach became stronger, as if all of his organs, one by one, had been swallowed by a small black hole, leaving only the itching vacuum behind.
Slater slowed down, then stopped. Bringing his chin to his left shoulder, he listened to the spreading pain in his chest. Acrid, burning, yet dull and throbbing, this was the pain of sickness, not pleasure. Seeking for answers, he peered up.
The tossing of Talha’s head stopped. His right cheek pressed to the ground, eyes immobile, as he stared into Camilla’s bluish face, like Slater had wanted. Like Slater hated.
No… Watching a weird, somberness wandering up Talha’s face, Slater bit his lip. The pain on the man’s face gave way to a thoughtful, yet tender expression. He searched her face with the same look of concern he had always searched Slater’s. “Don’t look at her like this…”
Master ignored.
Slater’s toes curled, muscles jumped under his skin as arctic frost seized his stomach.
“I said, don’t look at her!” He pulled back, then lurched forward, crushing his fists against the floor at either side of Talha’s face. The impact reverberated up his elbows and unsettled every one of his nerves. An unfamiliar bitter need wrenched his heart out of his chest, immersing him into agonizing emotional anguish. He didn’t know what he wanted to achieve here, except for Master to look at him again.
His eyes burned; he grabbed Camilla’s hair and, pouring all his hatred into the gesture, he hurled her head away.
Talha’s pupils zoomed out. Slowly, as if fighting an invisible force, Talha rolled his head toward him. A look of disbelief crossed his face. No matter what Slater had done before, Talha had never looked at him like this, as if he didn’t recognize the person in front of him.
The air hitched in Slater’s throat. Something bubbled in his chest. Clenching his teeth, trying to control his twitching lips, he demanded, “Look only at Slater…”
Unblinking, the man scanned his face with some kind of awe, and Slater remembered the gentle caresses of his mouth and the sweetness of his tongue. Slater hated kissing. Kisses were for the weak. Kisses were for women. He wasn’t a woman; he wasn’t weak. He didn’t need kisses. Kisses were for lovers. Slater never needed a lover. Love was a weakness. Love was a curse; he knew it for sure. Kisses and tenderness made him feel weak, weird, vulnerable, yet greedy and possessive. They sucked his soul out and feasted on it, leaving him messy, needy, empty. No, Slater needed no lover, yet now he couldn’t help remembering how Talha’s lips tasted.
