by Nero Seal
Talha lost his composure. Hand slamming against Slater’s solar plexus, he shoved the reaper back. The younger man swayed and slanted right, palms slapping against the mattress. Pushing him away with his foot, Talha looked around, and only then noticed the severed head of Bekir Asani on the top of his nightstand in a pool of blood. His motor functions froze for a split second as his mind tried to process what was happening. Slater sat back on his heels and removed his hands from the linens, staining the sheet with dirty-red palm prints.
Rage, ripping through Talha’s core, painted everything in white.
“You… What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Talha jumped off his bed as adrenaline substituted his blood. “Why the hell did you bring it here?”
Slater didn’t flinch, but his insane gaze, fixing on Talha’s face, broke through his frenzy, stirring his self-preservation instincts.
“Master doubted Slater. Slater brought Master the proof. Your turn. Help Slater.”
“Get this out of my house! NOW!” Talha’s throat burned from the yell as he pointed his finger to the door.
“No, Master.” The jittery, bouncing urge resounded in Slater’s liquid voice, making it sound even more unstable than usual. Slater’s stance changed. His head bent forward, shoulders tensed, bulged, and every muscle in his body strained under his skin. “Master is young. Master isn’t very smart, but Slater has been patient. Slater gave Master time. The trial period is over. Do it now, or Master isn’t good for Slater.”
Talha’s jaw hurt with pressure as, step by step, he circled the bed. Fists clenched, blanching white, he stormed to the ripper. Fingers grabbing Slater’s shoulder, he shoved the man off the bed to the floor and granted him with the first kick to his solar plexus. Slater’s mouth fell open, arms clasped around his middle, but the ripper didn’t fight back.
“You want me to control you? Fine.” Talha barely heard himself through the loud drumming of his maddening heart. “The first rule is: my room is off-limits.”
Consolidating his words, Talha granted Slater with another kick, then one more. With every hit, the top of his foot darkened with fresh blood.
Slater didn’t defend himself. Instead, a sated glint touched his eyes. “Yes, Master.”
“The second rule is: never disrespect me again.” Bending forward, Talha gripped Slater’s hair, making him look up, before backhanding his face. “The third rule is: no blood in my fucking house, you understand?”
Slater trembled. Watching Talha through the crescents of his half-closed eyes, he looked… Relieved? The red color flooding his face softened his features as he granted Talha a bloody smile. “Yes, Master.”
Releasing the tangled, wet hair, Talha added, “The fourth rule is: never make a mess in my house.”
He swung his leg, and the top of his right foot collided with Slater’s stomach, knocking him onto his back. Through the thickening haze of the adrenaline rush, Talha stepped forward and granted Slater with a couple more kicks to his ribs, pushing hoarse, fast breaths out of the ripper’s throat.
“Threaten me again, and I will kill you. You understand?”
“Ye-e-e-s-s,” he stretched the word out. As the challenge drained from Slater’s body, he glanced up with satisfaction. “More, Master. Make it hurt.”
What the fuck? Talha shrunk back; his focus slipped to his blood-covered foot. Slater’s reaction made him feel disgusted and dirty, but it also drained the fight out of his body, leaving only exhaustion behind. Bending forward, he grasped Slater’s elbow and tugged him up.
“Shower. Now. After you’re done, get rid of the head. When you’re back—we talk. Do what I say or go to hell.”
The younger man cringed then stumbled, almost dropping to the floor. Shaking his head, Talha heaved a sigh, tightened his grip, then dragged Slater toward the bathroom.
EASTERN ELEMENTS, FRESCOS, and grotesque niches decorated the teal and golden bathroom. The blue and silver mosaics on the walls interlinked with golden spider marble descending to the obsidian floor.
It took Slater a few moments to get his usual balance back. He didn’t look like he needed Talha’s help anymore, yet he never pulled his arm out of his grasp. Following, he let Talha push him into the shower cubicle.
“Undress.” The itch to wash the blood off himself curled Talha’s toes, but he ignored it, forcing his focus to Slater. “If you have anything in your pockets you want to keep, get it out and put it on the floor.”
Slater fished the karambit from behind his back, and a set of throwing knives from out of his boots. Fingers fumbling over his thighs, he pulled out five throwing needles from each side of his combat pants, then rolled his sleeves up and unfastened wrist-straps sheaths containing more throwing spikes from each arm.
Slater’s belt hit the floor. Talha snatched a plastic garbage bag from under the sink and held it open. “Next time you burn everything you wear, you clean yourself as good as you can before you come home. I’ll arrange a few places around the city where you can do it, but never again come here covered in blood. The staff should never see you like this, is it clear?”
“Master shouldn’t worry. No one saw Slater.” He pushed the pants down, stepped out of them, but wavered.
“What?”
“Tailor-made… Weapon adjusted.”
“Forget about it.”
Reluctantly, Slater dumped the pants in the bag, then peeled off his top, revealing a sinewy torso painted in crimson.
Fuck, no wonder he didn’t defend himself. Sour saliva flooded Talha’s mouth as he watched blood oozing out of a bullet wound on the left side of Slater’s lower belly, right above his hip. An inch away from the outer edge of his torso, the wound looked like the bullet passed through the muscle layer without causing any internal damage, yet blood kept streaming down Slater’s side.
Talha cringed as the guilt for hitting Slater and not paying attention to his condition sooner washed over.
“There is a lot of blood. Is it all yours?”
Bending forward, Slater pushed his trunks down, and Talha wondered how he could move with such blood loss. The wound didn’t seem to bother him at all. When the last piece of clothes disappeared into the garbage bag, Slater straightened up, not even a little embarrassed of his nakedness; quite the opposite, he appeared excited, thrilled, expectant. “No…”
Debating for a second if he should waste time cleaning the blood from the ripper, Talha passed Slater a small hand towel. “Apply pressure.”
Dropping a big, bath towel onto the floor, Talha ordered, “Get down,” then pressed the wall above the sink with both hands. The mosaic slab depressed and slid aside, revealing a hidden closet. Fetching the first aid kit, Talha put it on the floor next to Slater and kneeled by his side.
Slipping sterile gloves on, he picked a swab, soaked it in hydrogen peroxide, and cleaned the area around the wound, before pouring the rest of the solution into the wound. Connecting with the blood, the transparent liquid foamed, turning pink. Waiting for a moment, Talha took another bottle and repeated the process. With the bleeding subdued, he wiped the excessive moisture, examining the edges of the wound. Inflammation bloated the pink skin around the bullet hole.
Fuck… He unpacked sterile gauze, soaked it in hydrogen peroxide, then wrapped the end around the long tweezers.
“I have nothing to help with pain. Do you want to bite on something?” Hand hovering over the wound, he eyed Slater.
“No, Master. Slater is good.” He looked flustered, eyes glistening; his tongue slipped out and outlined his plump lips, wetting them.
“Suit yourself.” Talha shrugged, bringing his attention to the task. He hadn’t performed tamponade for years; his fingers felt stiff.
Talha guided the tweezers into the wound. Slater tensed and the blood flow increased.
“Try to relax,” Talha ordered, packing the wound with gauze. Once the cavity was tamped and the blood stopped, he put a clean layer of the dressing over the wound and secured it with a square piece of waterproof, t
ransparent film dressing.
“Okay, this should do until the doc arrives.” Pushing out a breath of concentration, he said, “Roll over.”
Slater did. Talha almost dropped a swab he’d picked. Prominent scars crisscrossed his skin descending to white parallel scars on his ass.
“Oh my fucking god…” he said, unable to blink. His hand, moving on its own, pressed to the ugly, rippled surface of the uneven skin. Thick and bumpy, it burned Talha’s fingertips. Slater flinched under his touch, and red spots popped out around his neck and flowed up, flooding his ears with an intense color of what Talha took for shame. “What the hell is this?”
“A whip, Master.” Slater’s strangled voice came out hoarse and quiet.
No wonder he is freaking insane if he was treated like this.
“Who did this?” Talha’s fingers traveled lower, examined the small of Slater’s back, and the bullet hole entered his field of vision. Wincing, Talha mentally kicked himself for getting distracted from the wound.
“Dead people.” Something twisted seeped into Slater’s vague reply, and Talha wanted to look him in the face to see if he was smiling.
Grabbing another bottle of hydrogen peroxide, Talha worked on the wound, performing the process of tamponade yet again.
“Why did they torture you?” He kept glancing up to the white welts as his hands did the mechanical job of packing the wound with soaked gauze.
“Tortured? No, Master. Educated.” The words worked like a slap, making Talha flinch. Regret, washing over, shuffled his thoughts, but he still asked, “Your former masters?”
“Yes.”
“How many were there?”
“Five.”
Talha frowned. “Did you kill them all?”
“Yes, Master.”
Fuck me… Shaking the topic off, Talha got from his knees. “Done. Can you stand up?”
Slater’s shoulders shook as he pushed himself off the ground. Unsteady on his feet, he swayed, and Talha wondered if forcing him to shower was a good idea, but the amount of blood on his body would raise too many questions. Slater didn’t look like he was about to collapse, so Talha ordered, “Shower. Now.”
Obediently, Slater stepped into the cubicle. Grabbing the showerhead, Talha pointed the tepid stream at the blood-covered torso. The shimmering needles hit Slater’s skin, absorbed the color, and cascaded down in crimson rivulets. Snaking down his muscular legs, the water swirled around Slater’s feet, before disappearing into the drain.
Watching Slater’s hands move up and down his torso, Talha couldn’t help examining his build. With a low amount of fat under his skin, Slater’s body could be used as an anatomical exhibit for studying the muscular system. Rather slender, he wasn’t built like a heavy lifter or a boxer. With his long sinewy limbs, he probably relied on speed and technique in fights, rather than on brute force. His thin waist and wide, muscular shoulders only magnified his resemblance to the antique sculpture of Discobolus, the disc thrower.
A few long minutes passed in silence before the last smudges of blood disappeared from Slater’s front.
“Turn around,” Talha ordered. Slater’s gaze darkened, obscured. His pupils zoomed out, bleeding into the icy rings of his irises. Nervously licking his lips, he swallowed and provided Talha with a view of his back.
Trying to ignore the welts, Talha took a soft sponge and carefully washed the blood off Slater’s head, back, and the top of his legs. It felt like the blood would never clear up, so when Slater was finally clean, Talha felt wiped. Cutting the water off, he huffed, “Done.”
Slowly, Slater faced him. Red spots speckled the top of his chest, a pink color that Talha took for shame, flushed his face and dropped his eyelids half-closed. Slater’s stomach tightened, bringing Talha’s attention to his lower part.
“You are hard…” Talha commented, dumbfounded, and Slater granted him with a toothy grin.
“Master looked. Master touched.”
“Slater, are you gay?” Talha winced, realizing that he didn’t want to know. The information overflowed his mind, making his head spin. Grabbing the towel, he covered the reaper. “It doesn’t matter right now. Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Slater said, and Talha wondered what question he answered.
On their way to the spare bedroom, Talha couldn’t help remembering the ugly scars decorating Slater’s skin. How old was he when someone did this to him? Education, huh? He wanted me to hit him, to make it hurt. Is it the same as the control he asked for? Or did he come to my bed for another reason?
He wedged the wooden door open, slapped the switch, and warm light illuminated the calm interior of the white and beige bedroom. Approaching the bed, he tossed the cover away and spread a clean towel over the sheets. “Lie down.”
Darting a glance at Talha, Slater obeyed.
“Stay here; I’ll arrange a transfer for you to a private hospital.” He moved to the door, but a strong hand captured his forearm, stopping him.
“No hospitals. No doctors. Slater’s fine.”
Instinctively Talha dropped his gaze to Slater’s arm. Three needle marks dotted the inner side of his elbow. Unsure how to read it, he peered into Slater’s pinpoint pupils. Fuck my life... Feeling frustration building up in his chest, Talha prompted, “Are you high?”
“A little…” Slater giggled.
“What did you take?”
“Adrenaline, Fentanyl, a hemostatic, and …” Slater scrunched his face trying to remember what else but failed.
A crushing fist of regret battered Talha’s heart. Slater was trouble. Slater was bad news. Slater was everything Talha didn’t need, and he couldn’t see any way out of the deal, except by killing him. For a second, Talha considered this option, but the white lines of whip marks, so thick it was clear the skin had been broken over and over, surfaced before him. Has anyone ever treated him like a human being? He’s barely older than Ejder, yet he has so many scars… If Behçet hurt him too, no wonder he ended up dead. Why did someone like Slater allow anyone to hurt him?
So many questions swirled in his head without answers, so many problems to solve. A doctor, a cleaning crew, a fucking severed head in his bedroom, and a high, wounded psycho with a hard-on. Throwing a blanket over Slater’s hips, Talha moved for the door. “Stay in bed.”
“Slater doesn’t want a doctor.” Metal resounded in the ripper’s voice, but Talha had already decided on what to do next.
“I don’t care what you want. You need antibiotics. You need someone to remove the dead tissues from the wound, and you need a fucking tetanus shot. If you want to stay in my house, you follow my orders.”
PRESENT
ROCKING TO AND FRO, Slater squatted down by Talha’s side, watching the man sleep. His soul, shrinking and extending, trapped the air in his lungs. His chest hurt, and he couldn’t find the reason for his agitation.
It would be so much easier if Master fucked her face. Why does Master refuse? Why does Master want to suffer?
His thumb brushed over the top of his hot and swollen hand, pressing the pulsing burn. The jolting pain shot through his body, making him hiss and cringe, but it didn’t bring any relief. He kept pressing, hoping that with time the pain would replace his agitation.
“Master doesn’t want Slater. Master chose a woman over Slater…” Lips twitching in disgust, he whispered. “Slater was ready to do everything for Master. Slater slaughtered for Master. Slater blindly followed Master. Slater did everything Master asked. If Master wished, Slater would drown the world in blood and fire… Yet Slater wasn’t good enough. Why, Master?”
His left palm landed on Camilla’s head, caressed her tangled hair.
“Why is a woman better? Because of children, Master?” He cocked his head, considering. “Slater can steal as many children as Master wants.”
He scratched his cheek with his right hand and rolled his head to the other side.
“No… Who wants children? Children are annoying… They are messy. Master doesn�
��t like messy. If not for children, then why?”
Unable to find the answer within himself, he shot a glance at Talha’s blood-covered wrists, dry, pale skin that had lost its gloss, and black stubble. His attention, sliding down the muscular stomach, reached the dark hair in his groin and a soft, long cock that slept curling to the left. Saliva flooded Slater’s mouth, and he hurriedly swallowed.
Master was so hot inside… He bit his lower lip, remembering Talha’s eyes, full of pain. Desire sparked in his belly, warming his face.
No. If Slater wants Master, Slater can’t kill Master. Slater should stop… Master doesn’t want Slater anymore. If Master doesn’t want Slater, Master can’t live. There is no way back. Slater has to kill Master. Master has to die.
Despite his thoughts, Slater didn’t move. Sitting there, he watched Talha’s chest rise and fall with rhythmical, heavy breaths.
SEVERE PAIN WRENCHED HIS CALF in a seizure. Talha convulsed, limbs flapping against the ground. He needed air, but something prevented him from gasping. Panic, mixing with pain, shot his eyes open.
A red-stone ceiling... a weak glowing light filtered in from above... a gray, dusty floor... and the blue eyes of his tormentor, watching him with glowing hatred.
Fuck… Talha groaned. Sucking air through his nose, he shook his legs. Dehydration and complete immobility dried up his muscles, making them cramp. As soon as he curled his toes, vicious electric jolts shot down his right leg. He winced. Stretching his toes, he tried to absorb the pain. The pangs weakened; he rolled his head to the side, meeting Slater’s glare.
Slater said nothing. Sitting by his right side on his toes, he resembled a creepy gargoyle sculpture. Camilla’s grayish, rotting head stood by his side as his hand mechanically caressed her hair. His glare, glossy and immobile, made Talha wonder if the man could even see him. Talha groaned to attract Slater’s attention. The ripper cocked his head, and a weird, painful grimace crawled up his face.
Slater’s long fingers picked a tangled hank of Camilla’s bloody hair, let the length slide between his fingers, before releasing the strand; his vacant look never leaving Talha’s face.
