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.