The high-pitched shrill pierced the air, substituting Slater’s heavy breathing. The room blurred, spiraling out of control. His head rolled to the side, leveling with Camilla’s dead glare as his eyelids grew heavy, and the darkness swallowed him up.
“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Slater cursed, watching blood stream from Talha’s split brow. His chest spasmed and contorted, too tight to contain any air. His nails dug into his skin over his heart and clawed down, then again and again, attempting to ease the pain, but it only intensified.
Slater needs pain. Slater can control himself. Slater just needs pain. His other hand sank into his hair as he spun around, avoiding looking at Talha. No. No. No. Master should die. Master deserved it. Die. Die. Die!
Grinding his teeth, he crashed his fists against the wall. Pouring the fire of anger and dissatisfaction into the short, fast jabs, he scratched and burst his knuckles bloody, but the pain didn’t calm him, neither did it bring him that buzzing pleasure and excitement he had always rushed toward. It just hurt.
No… He got to his knees, shuffled up to Talha’s face. His palms sliding up the unshaved cheeks, he rolled Talha’s face to himself, noticing the tiny stream of blood seeping from Talha’s ear. Nooo…
“Master has always been stupid,” he said, slumping to the side on his hip and curling into a ball by Talha’s side. The cold ground grated his skin and made him shiver. He shuffled closer to his master to snatch a little bit of his warmth. He remembered the first time he’d seen Talha. His face had been covered with blood, just like now. Back then, Talha had smelled like sun and dust, blood and gunpowder. Now, everything around bathed in the stench of death, making it impossible to say how Talha smelled today.
He smirked, as the memory unwrapped. Walking into that room, Talha had no idea how close he had been to death.
That night Slater had celebrated his freedom. Completely letting go, he’d allowed the need to kill to overtake him. The same moment Slater heard three pairs of legs hurrying down the corridor, his hand automatically brushed up his thigh and extracted three throwing needles out of the loops.
He’d heard the door being opened and panting filling the air. He smelled their confusion and felt their wary glances all over his back, but he wasn’t in a hurry to kill, enjoying the attention.
Someone who hadn’t been his master commanded him to turn around and throw his hands in the air. He’d been curious to see the face of a man, who for some reason, decided that he had the right to order Iblīs around.
So Slater turned.
Hiding behind his gun and a bulletproof vest, the man in command had no idea that with a single flick of his hand, Slater could have finished them all. At that moment, only the liquid amber of Talha’s curious eyes stopped Slater from sending the throwing needles at their throats.
Instead, he’d waited. The more he listened to Talha talk, the more intrigued he had become, so he agreed to the stupid deal and even followed the man to his house.
At first, Slater hadn’t treated him seriously. Curious and bored, he’d watched Talha’s every move, expecting him to make a mistake, and Talha hadn’t disappointed. Time after time, he’d done something to irritate Slater, yet he hadn’t killed him. Slater couldn’t explain why. Maybe because Talha had been different from all of his former masters, or maybe because Talha entertained him. So many times in his life, Slater had spent hours on the floor, sleeping in pools of his bloody piss, because he hadn’t been able to get up. Slater had never complained. More than that, he’d learned to enjoy pain, but Talha had never hit hard. Even administering punishment, Talha’s focus had always been on Slater, constantly questioning if he did what Slater needed, if Slater could take it.
Many times Slater had questioned how such a person could have gained power. Unlike his ex-masters, Talha didn’t solely rely on fear and cruelty, so why had people listened to him, respected him? Slater did his best to test the limits of his tolerance, every time expecting the man to lose his self-control, and show his true face. Talha never had. No matter what Slater had done, Talha hadn’t rejected him and had never been cruel or unjust.
Slater’s finger brushed over his lips, as he remembered the uncertain kiss Talha had forced upon him and how he’d hit him the next instance, realizing what he had done and hoping that pain would distract Slater and make him forget. Slater had never forgotten.
For a long time, Slater had known that Master got weaker. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Talha had brushed his lips against Slater’s. At first, Slater hadn’t known how to react. Thrown from cold to hot, he’d itched to confront Talha, but every time he was about to bring the topic up, his lips stayed glued. The way Master watched him, treated his body after sex, and cared for Slater’s wounds. Everything Master had done made Slater feel revolted toward the same weakness that twitched in his own chest. At some point, Slater started thinking that maybe he could tolerate becoming Master’s only weakness or that Master would be Slater’s only weakness. Corrupted with kindness, Slater was ready to throw his principles away. For Master.
But Master chose a woman.
“Why?” Talha’s cold skin seared him with incandescent heat, and Slater shuffled away to the wall, got on all fours. Watching the side of the slack face, Slater asked again, “Why Master chose a woman? Why not Slater? Slater has done everything for Master.”
Talha didn’t answer, so Slater got up and strolled out of the chamber. When he returned, he carried a soft cloth and a tin bucket brimming with water. Putting it on the floor by Talha’s side, he dropped to his knees and undid the ropes spreading Talha’s legs apart. His hands worked fast, wiping Talha’s body. Starting from his head, he made his way down the stomach, then cleaned his groin. Washing his legs last, he gave them a slight massage, to restart the blood circulation.
Finished, he splashed the dirty water out of the door and fished a water bottle out of his backpack. Approaching Talha, he squatted by his side and wiped the drying blood that now barely seeped out of Talha’s split brow. He wavered for a second before unscrewing the lid and lifting Talha’s head, ripped the duct tape off his lips, then brought the bottle to his mouth.
THE TINY, ANNOYING NOISE DRILLED through the numbness of Talha’s consciousness and irritated his nerves. He scrunched his face, fighting the heavy fog in his ears and head, then unglued his eyes.
Examining his surroundings, he heaved a sigh. The ropes around his legs had disappeared. He bent his knees, and his eyelids dropped from the simple pleasure the free movement provided. Feeling the blood streaming through his veins, he moved his toes up and down, before opening his eyes again. The ropes around his wrists had loosened up, not enough for one hand to catch the other or to reach his mouth, but the length allowed him to roll to his side. Grazing the wall, his gaze stumbled over the powerful frame of the ripper. With his back pressed to Talha’s hip, he lay on his side, but no matter how many times Talha called for him, he never reacted. A few wisps of his hair rested in blood, but Slater didn’t look like he cared.
“Ugh-ur!” Talha called again, but the younger man only brought his head closer to his chest and hugged his middle.
Slater had always been difficult to talk to. Five years ago, it took Talha many weeks and a lot of patience to understand Slater’s needs, and many more to discover his past.