Iblis’ Affliction

by Nero Seal

  His tongue burned with a need to feel the sweetness and warmth he’d felt that night. He longed to catch the attentive gaze of amber eyes that observed his every move, to hear the soft chuckle when Master teased him, pleased him. Slater had never felt safe and confident with any of his former masters. Yet, year by year, Talha instilled in his heart the absolute faith that no matter what Slater did, Talha would always forgive him, accept him, and clean his mess. And Slater did his best to test Talha’s limits and try to break this faith, but never before had he succeeded, until now.

  His mind roiling with confusion, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the black duct tape, covering Talha’s mouth. He closed his eyes, trying to subdue the jerk of his shoulders and control his heavy, rapid panting. The familiar scent of his master’s skin invaded his being.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like this, absorbing his master’s warmth with every cell of his body, but when he drew back; his eyes were heavy, hot, and swollen.

  Propping himself on one hand, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and cleared his throat.

  “Are you ready to fuck her mouth?” No reply. Slater moved his hand behind his back, squeezed the grip of the karambit. Bringing the black blade to Talha’s chest, he sliced another line down, close to the first one, watching the man’s expression darken with deep, complex emotion. “That’s two, Master.”

  TALHA LAY ON HIS BACK, blinking into the darkness. Every muscle, every bone, every cell in his body throbbed. His insides swelled, his ass hurt, and merely thinking about the rape clenched his fists in an uncontrollable rage. However, every time his memory pictured Slater’s desperate, painful grimace and the watery eyes that searched his soul for answers, Talha’s chest tightened.

  Since when did he start having feelings? He even kissed me… Talha remembered the awkward lips that pressed against the duct tape, the chaotic drumming of Slater’s heart coming through his shirt, and then something acrid and hot tickling his skin where Slater rested his face in the crook of his neck. Did he cry, or was it sweat?

  His gaze traveled toward the opposite wall, where Camilla’s head lay in the dust.

  Did he do this all because he was jealous? But Slater had never wanted anything but sex and pain. When the fuck did this change? Why didn’t he say anything? Fuck, Slater, you are so stupid...

  Talha growled, lifted his head, and bumped it against the ground. His mind slowly trailed back in time to the night when Slater had killed for him for the first time.

  5 YEARS AGO

  SEARING PAIN SHOT THROUGH his head. Emitting from his right temple, then rushed down his stiff neck and settled somewhere between his shoulder blades. Uncomfortable stillness seized his body. He tried to gasp, but something heavy and hot weighed on his stomach, hampering his breathing and extracted a groan from his throat. Rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm, he pried his eyes open.

  An electric gaze of transparent blue stabbed him from above, as Slater’s scorching fingers slithered over his chest. Every caress resounded throughout his body with a pulse of pain.

  Blood pressure spiked, sending a wave of heat up his throat as the image from the nightmare flared in his consciousness. Just like now, in his dream Slater towered over him; his long fingers extract one organ after another from his gaping stomach, before pinning them to the bloody wall map with throwing knives.

  Adrenaline kicked in, activating his self-preservation instincts. Before he understood what was going on, his fist collided with Slater’s face and tossed him aside. With a cat-like grace, as if the punch provided no impact or pain, Slater landed on all fours. Head snapping to the side, he grinned, fisted the crumpled bedsheet with one hand, rubbed his cheek with another. “Master is feisty today...”

  He didn’t look hurt or insulted. Observing Talha with a mix of curiosity and attention, he sat back on his heels with his palms resting on the top of his thighs. Like yesterday, he wore only sweatpants, which left the tanned skin of his upper body exposed. Scrutinizing his visitor, Talha noticed that Slater’s skin wasn’t all that perfect. He ignored the distinctive round scars left by bullets that decorated Slater’s shoulders and dotted the left side of his torso. He also discounted the thin knife lines on the outer side of his left forearm, and his right upper belly, as those screamed of battle wounds. His whole attention concentrated on the light, barely visible round scars that specked Slater’s chest right below his protruding collarbones. The same scars dotted his lower belly, disappearing in the depth of his pants. Those weren’t scars earned in fights. Those were cigarette burns, left by torture.

  Shaking his head, Talha scowled. His focus slid from the ripper to his own torso. A huge purple hematoma, left by the rain of bullets, spread over his chest and glistened with something transparent and sticky. Pressing his fingers to his skin, he smeared the greasy substance, then brought his fingers to his face. A heady, herbal scent crawled up his nose, making him flinch back.

  “What d-de fuck is this?” Talha asked, stuttering.

  “Ointment, Master.” Picking up a small white plastic jar that lay on the linens, Slater screwed the lid back on. “Master is careless. Master needs protection. Slater will protect…”

  Perplexed, Talha lost track of his thoughts, burning with a desire to smash Slater’s face against the floor, so the reaper would forever forget the way to his bedroom, but a tiny doubt, fizzing at the back of his consciousness, stopped him. He treated my bruises… Why?

  ‘Master needs protection.’ he replayed Slater’s words in his mind, and wondered if this was how Slater had been with all his masters?

  Is he just an assassin, or does having Iblīs mean no privacy and a constant annoying shadow? Is Slater the reason Behçet survived all this time? Because Slater protected him? With those questions, another one surfaced in his mind. Did Slater come to Behçet’s bed at night, like this?

  He cringed, shook his head, and kicked the blanket off.

  “Why do I even think about it?” Talha muttered under his breath, then slapped barefoot toward the bathroom, needing a cold shower to clear his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “You’d better be gone before I’m out of the shower. And never enter my room again, or we will have problems. Is that clear?”

  Slater didn’t reply, but his smile grew wider.

  TALHA’S HEAD HURT. Forgetting about his stitches, he stepped into the shower cubicle, and the first threads of cold water hit the top of his head. The myriads small needles, piercing his mind, sedated his confused thoughts.

  What a mess… he thought, remembering the shoot-out in the mosque, then Slater’s weird behavior and creepy demand to stay in his room. What did I get myself into?

  He would have regretted making that deal, but Talha had many enemies. After seeing what Slater had done to his former master, he hoped that no one else would ever have Slater, as he had no desire to share Behçet’s fate. I have to learn how to deal with him or put him down.

  Shaking his head, he cast thoughts about Slater out of his mind, and steered them to his business affairs. He made a mental note to visit Ejder in the hospital, before seeing his police informant to ensure he got rid of all the evidence left after the shootout.

  His fingertips creased. Turning the water off, he snatched a towel, wrapped it around his hips, and wandered back to the bedroom.

  His calm evaporated as soon as his gaze landed on Slater who sat on his bed in the exact position as the evening before. With a black throwing knife, he was slicing an apple, sending piece after piece into his mouth.

  “Breakfast, Master?” The innocent look on his face made Talha’s teeth grind. Cutting another piece off the apple, Slater stretched out his hand and offered it to Talha.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Talha felt like an idiot. The mental turmoil settled in his chest as Slater peered back at him. He could kick Slater out or beat him bloody, but he had a haunting feeling that Slater had a hidden agenda. More than that, Talha wasn’t sure he would win a phy
sical confrontation. Behçet had been a strong man, a good fighter, yet Slater didn’t have a single bruise on his body. Using a weapon to threaten him sounded like a horrible idea. Raised in Mardin, Talha learned that a weapon should only be drawn if you intended to use it. Talha followed that rule, not wanting the reputation of a barking dog that never bites. If Slater didn’t respect his words, why should he respect his actions? What good would empty threats be if he needed Slater to work for him? Instead of hitting the man or threatening him, he said, “If you are trying to piss me off, you are doing very well.”

  “Hmm…” Slater’s face stretched in a toothy smile. He opened his mouth and put in the piece of apple that Talha hadn’t taken.

  Is it a sick game? Is he testing me?

  “Didn’t we talk about it yesterday?”

  “We did. Master must have forgotten. Slater stays here from today.”

  Talha grimaced. Suppressing a groan, he scratched his cheek. If Slater stays in my house we will end up killing each other. If I wake up tomorrow and he is in my room, I will fucking put him down… In and out, counting till fifteen on every inhale, he took a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down.

  A vice of tension releasing his throat, he drifted to the closet and fished out some underwear.

  “No, Slater doesn’t.” He rolled his eyes, realizing that he was starting to talk about Slater in the third person. I barely know him, yet he’s already fucking with my mind. Dropping the towel to the floor, he put the black cotton trunks on, then added, “I have no time for this sick game of yours. Gather your things, you are moving out.”

  Disregarding the ripper’s presence, he grabbed the black pants.

  A chilling low voice reached his ears from behind. “No. Slater stays here.”

  “Listen…” Pushing a calming breath out, Talha stuffed the pants back into the closet, faced the younger man, then said as clear as he could, “I don’t know what duties you carried out before, but with me, it will be simple. I pay you money—you kill for me. If I need you—I call for you. The rest of the time, you pretend you don’t exist. Understand? I don’t need you to protect me twenty-four seven. I don’t need you in my house and my fucking bedroom.”

  “Master is joking again, huh?” Slater’s voice trembled with something deep and dark. “Master is funny. That wasn’t the deal. Slater stays.”

  Talha shrugged. The more time he spent with Slater, the more he doubted that someone like him could be the bloodiest ripper of Anatolia. “I’m not even sure you are who you say you are. For all I know, you’re just a psycho who butchered Behçet. More than that, you haven’t proved yourself useful to me, yet you are already this close…” Talha used his index finger and thumb to make his point. “...to exhausting my patience. I have no reason to tolerate this… whatever this is. It’s my house, my rules, my fucking bedroom. Yet, you have no respect for any of this.”

  SHHHH came without a warning. The black knife ripped through the air, sinking deep into the carved wood of the closet a mere inch away from Talha’s face. Talha’s heart dropped as his eyes followed the trajectory of the knife. In disbelief, he gripped the handle, then tugged it out of the wood.

  “Never doubt me, Master.” An unconcealed warning vibrated in Slater’s voice, and Talha faced his ripper.

  That’s it...

  “I have lots of patience. I always give people a chance.” Talha’s jaw hurt with pressure as he pushed the words through gritted teeth. “I can be forgiving; I can be generous. However, I am going to say this once. If you ever do something like that again, make sure you don’t miss because there will not be the third time.”

  “Slater never misses. A fly, Master,” Slater hissed.

  Slowly, as if in a dream, Talha unglued his gaze from the reaper and dragged it to the knife. A fat, green fly jerked its legs in the air, stubbed through the guts with a long, thin throwing knife. He faced the door, but Slater had already disappeared.

  THE FOLLOWING DAYS, THE FALLOUT of the war swept over Talha, distracting him from thinking about Slater. Ejder’s shoulder was healing well, but Talha still insisted on him staying in the hospital for at least a week. The ripper seemed to have gotten the message, as he didn’t show up again, but the haunting feeling of someone watching his every move never left Talha. It turned the night he invited a woman over into a complete disaster. No matter how many times he searched his room for signs of intrusion, he had never been able to catch Slater, only the faint smell of cloves and wood. But with every passing day, he grew more and more tolerant of the never ending feel of Slater’s presence.

  The shoot-out in the mosque stirred up Istanbul’s criminal world. Left without their leader, the Asani Cartel wallowed in blood as Behçet’s young, sadistic brother tried to prove his right to inherit the family domain.

  Standing in the middle of the cool, dim hall of his mansion, Talha held a fat paper envelope in his hand.

  “Slater?” he called out. The sound of his voice, smacking against the marble walls shattered into a dozen fractions. “I know you are here.”

  Separating from the impenetrable shadow behind the marble sculpture of Venus, Slater took a step forward.

  “What is it, Master?” The look he gave Talha brought a frown of concern to his face and raised a question, Did I insult him? The reaper was paler than usual; his eyes feverishly glinted with a silent challenge and something else he couldn’t catalogue.

  I must be overthinking it, Talha thought, watching the white slit of Slater’s lips hone his features. Slater stood still, yet his body moved with every breath as if his whole being wasn’t created from mortal flesh but from wind and fire.

  “I have a job for you.”

  Slater didn’t reply, but his head tilted to the side, suggesting he waited for an apology or continuation, Talha couldn’t say which. Unsure how to behave, Talha stepped forward. Stretching out his hand, he offered the envelope to Slater. “Prove yourself to me, and then we will talk about what you want.”

  Slater’s expression darkened, morphing into an inquisitive glare. Grabbing the envelope, he tore it open.

  “What’s this?” His voice caustic, aggressive, his fingers crumpled the paper.

  “The dossier and part payment. Once you are done you will receive twice as much.”

  Slater’s long fingers pinched the few sheets of the dossier and pulled it out before he flipped the envelope upside down. Green notes swirled in the air and littered the marble floor; the envelope followed. Slater didn’t spare them a glance. His whole attention was on Talha.

  “Slater has already said, but Master didn’t listen. Master never does. Slater doesn't need money.”

  Talha scowled. Slater had said it before, but he had indeed shrugged it off. There was no reason for Slater to work for free, and he never said what exactly he wanted. Vague and obscure, Slater’s demands confused Talha.

  “What do you want then? You don’t make any sense. My soul, devotion? Don’t tell me you believe you are the Devil? So sorry to break your delusion, but you have too many scars to be Iblīs.”

  Short, barking laughter escaped Slater’s lips as he observed Talha with shimmering curiosity.

  “Master is funny. Master doesn’t understand yet, but Master will.” His chest brushed against Talha’s as he passed by. “Tonight, Slater stays in Master’s room. Master has to get used to Slater, even if Master isn’t ready.”

  THE THICK SMELL OF BLOOD and sweat hauled Talha out of his sleep. Hot and heavy, the air stood idle in the room. Someone’s solid weight, adding to his suffocation, straddled his hips. Awkward, impatient fingers fumbled over his chest. Wet and warm, they snatched the blanket away, then landed on his shoulders, pinning him deeper into the mattress.

  His confused, messy after sleeping thoughts scattered about the room, following his jumping gaze, until they settled on the eyes glinting in the dark. Talha’s brain didn’t come around, but his body worked on instincts. Fist swishing through the air, he imprinted his knuckles in S
later’s left cheek.

  For someone so deadly and unpredictable, Iblīs was surprisingly easy to hit. Pushing the remaining weight off himself, Talha swatted the wall. CLICK joined a dull BUMP and a bright light, streaming from the ceiling, illuminated the room.

  “What the fuck?” Dirty red smudges marred his light gray bed sheets and his naked chest. A coat of blood crisped over Slater’s face, glinting with occasional sparks that suggested that either the blood was still fresh or Slater couldn’t stop sweating. His black combat shirt with raglan-cut sleeves sat unnaturally tight around his chest. Only when Talha squinted did he notice that it was soaking wet. Parts of his hair tangled together and stuck to his scalp in places, making Talha wonder if Slater’s head was wounded or marred with someone else’s blood.

  “Time’s up, Master,” Slater growled then lurched at the man again, his knees on either side of Talha’s hips. Chest contracting, lips spat out a labored breath that washed Talha in heavy, humid air. Strong fingers dug deep into Talha’s shoulder as the blood-covered face approached. “You have to learn how to control Slater, even if you aren’t ready. Now, Master, now, or Slater will kill more. Slater is thirsty. Slater wants blood. Help Slater to stop.”

  With every sentence the ripper said, Talha’s mood darkened. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Control you? How? Do you have a fucking manual?”

  “Master is funny,” Slater said without a shadow of a smile.