Time stretched and slowed, intensifying the surrounding darkness. The air, swirling in Talha’s lungs, condensed, making it impossible to breathe. It had a metallic taste to it. Heartbeats, reverberating throughout his body, echoed in his fingertips when he trudged to the table. Every cell rebelled, yelling at him not to look, but his hand, acting on its own, landed on the cold silver and removed the cover.
For a second, staring into the white eyes of Zaal’s severed head, he felt nothing, but in a flash, a wave of nausea clutched his stomach, as every small detail sank in. Well baked, brown skin crisped over Zaal’s cheeks, glinting with cooking fat. His bushy brows and short eyelashes curled with heat but didn’t burn unlike the wrinkled red apple stuffed in his mouth that still emitted light threads of steam.
“What have you done, Slater?” Through the thick fog of his failing hearing, he heard himself say. Not blinking, not breathing, he stared into the dead, colorless eyes, unable to collect his thoughts.
“Surprise, Master!” A click resounded in the empty space. Bright light struck Talha’s eyes, making him squint and release the silver cover. Falling on the large plate, it jingled. “Aren’t you happy?”
This can’t be real… A smile of disbelief tickled the corners of his lips. His focus bounced from the split throat of one man to the slashed gut of another, then moved to a disfigured body he couldn’t identify. Slater wouldn’t betray me like this…
“Oh, sorry, Master. Slater forgot you don’t eat pork.”
Severed limbs, cooked and raw, were served on this cannibalistic feast. Dead bodies, mutilated, dismembered, were seated at the perfectly laid out tables, where the main dish was his butchered bodyguard. Guts and blood flooded the white marble floor that once wore a beautiful, silverish hue.
All of them are men… Talha noticed. Slater usually didn’t find pleasure in killing women or children, finding them too boring and weak, so Talha asked, “That’s a lot of cooking, Slater. Did you do this all by yourself?”
“No, Master,” Slater’s voice swelled with pride. “The maids helped.”
“Where are the maids? Did you kill them too?”
“No. Basement.” The ringing voice dulled with irritation, but then Slater added in a completely different, smooth and liquid tone, “Slater has a gift for you, Master.”
Talha shook his head, unwilling to face the reaper. The words ‘Whatever you have, I don’t want it’ froze on his lips. Summoning all his willpower, he forced his facial muscles into submission and turned around, taking in the whole picture.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Red splashes covered the walls, tablecloths, and curtains, turning the sublime atmosphere of the majestic Grand Hall into the blood-curdling scene from Hell. A hopeless dread, sinking deep into his bones, froze his marrows. Every muscle aching, he wasn’t sure where to look. Fighting the itch to stick his fingers into his hair, Talha faced his ripper.
If I can’t handle him, I’ll join them…
Face covered in blood, Slater smiled and pointed at a tall Christmas tree. Only then did Talha noticed bloody guts decorating the branches and organs hanging on threads. A death grin twisted the pale lips of Camilla’s severed head as it adorned the top of the tree. Her opened, unfocused, muddy eyes didn’t sparkle anymore.
Talha had seen plenty of blood and death in his life, but this was Hell on Earth, and his own Iblīs had brought the flames of disaster upon his house.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find a star,” Slater offered in an unapologetic voice. When Talha said nothing, fearing his voice would break, the reaper’s mood shifted for the worse. His smile dimmed. He cocked his head and looked at Talha as if searching for signs of appreciation. Without finding any, he started pacing again.
Talha didn’t bother following him. If Slater wanted to kill him, he would have already been dead. Instead, his gaze traveled over a marble sculpture that stood by the Christmas tree. Small and delicate, pale and headless, it froze in the same posture as Venus. A tablecloth draped around her waist, hiding her nudity, and a few long javelins, stabbing through the flesh, fixed her body into the correct position.
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Slater’s low whisper tickled his ear, substituted Talha’s blood with ice. “You wanted to keep her, Master? Now you can.”
One hand clasped over Talha’s throat, the other arm entwined his waist, as Slater’s chin rested on his shoulder, washing his face in a sweet, rose aroma. The rapid beating of Slater’s heart drummed against Talha’s back.
There was no point in resisting. Raised in the Philippines, Slater was a skilled silat fighter trained not for sparring, but murder. Even in the best shape, Talha doubted he could win in fair combat. If he fought now, he would be dead within seconds. The only weapon he could rely on was his words.
“If you sleep with the Devil, you can’t expect to get out of Hell,” Slater repeated Talha’s words. “You traded me to a pussy, Master. You got weak.”
“No, Slater!” Pushing the order into his tone, Talha forced his way around to face his ripper, but the icy-blue eyes greeting him didn’t reflect any kindness.
Bringing a blood-covered finger to his full lips, Slater hushed, “Shhh…”
His hand shot forward. The iron clamps of his fingers squeezed Talha’s neck, and Slater’s sweet breath trembled on his lips.
“It’s Christmas, Talha. Make a wish.”
Something glinted in Slater’s hand. A needle stabbed into his throat and heat jolted through Talha’s veins. A bitter, medical taste deluged his mouth. He blinked with heavy lids, then again, but the bloody room drifted and dissolved into darkness.
THE BUMPY SURFACE of the ground grazed Talha’s back with every thrust. Something slick and heavy rubbed against his chest. Cool drops bombarded his skin and scattered down his cheeks and neck. Dull pain resounded throughout his body with every bump, sending waves of nausea up his throat. Head rolling to the side, a groan of pain vibrated in his trachea and not finding the way out, crashed against his glued lips. He tried to swallow, but his tongue, taking all the space in his parched mouth, didn’t respond.
“Oh, you are awake,” the familiar, liquid voice sounded pleased. Talha forced his heavy eyelids open. “This is great. I don’t think I can cum if you’re not looking at me.”
Slater’s face, red and flustered, towered over him. Rivers of sweat trickled down his forehead and angular cheekbones. Gathering on his chin and the tip of his nose, they dripped down onto Talha’s face. Up and down, Slater’s body slicked against his. The constant motion aggravated his nausea, and Talha desperately wanted to tell him to stop, but his lips disobeyed, and only a muffled groan broke through.
“Yeah, that’s so much better…” Slater whispered, and a crease formed between his brows. Torn breathing danced over Talha’s face, as the electric gaze pierced his soul, making it impossible to look away.
Fighting the fog of confusion, Talha blinked, then again and again. With every second, his awareness returned, bringing to his attention a growing pain in his guts and dull numbness in his lower body. Breaking the spell of Slater’s gaze, he looked down and winced. His stomach glistened with sweat. A black rope ringed his ankles, tying them tight to his thighs. Slater’s hips smashed against his buttocks with every thrust of his body.