Caretaker knows whumpee was used for years. As a weapon. They just didn't know whumpee was used for other services.

Caretaker probably should have been able to guess at the flinches, but when they come across a video, it still feels like their world is torn apart.

They don't know what to do, how to bring is up. Until whumpee gets captured again, and when caretaker rescues them, they can't even stand.

"Caretaker?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm right here. Do you need me to... do anything?"

"Caretaker, please."

He lifts my chin with a finger and looks at me, the sparkle in his amber eyes weirdly affectionate. Carefully, he pulls me in to kiss my lips. I don't offer any resistance. "That's because you fought, sweetheart. Look how easy it is, when you're being good."

"I..." I sob mindlessly, shake my head, still pressed into his gentle embrace. "I didn't want this."

I feel Ridley's body tense, his fingers curl up into my skin, his teeth clench. His eyes that have been soft a second ago flare up with cruel anger. "You stupid fucking slu-" He stops. His body relaxes again, his fingers spread to hold me gently. "Oh babygirl," he coos instead. "Of course you wanted this. You just didn't understand it at the beginning. But it feels good now, doesn't it? It feels good to be Daddy's good little girl."

I shiver at the sudden outburst, the threat, the anger, the comfort, the softness.

His finger brushes over my lip. "I know it's a lot to process. But today's lesson is over." He kisses me again. "You can sleep in Daddy's big soft bed tonight, how does that sound?"

Sleep. A bed. A break. An escape, if only for my mind. I nod weakly. I don't want the anger to return. I couldn't make it through another 'lesson'. I look up at him and nod. "Thank you," I whisper, and it's more sincere than I want to admit. 

"Shhhh." His hold of my face tenses, his finger presses down on the split in my swollen lip. I wince at the sudden pain.

"Don't forget how to address me, sweetheart."

I swallow back the self-hate. "Daddy," I murmur. "Thank you, Daddy."

He smirks, vicious and pleased. "There we go." A sharp whistle, and some seconds later, B appears by our side, sleepily blinking against the light. 

He's been in the room the entire time, I realize in horror. He's been there, and he's just slept through it.

"B," Ridley demands. "Our princess is rather filthy. Help her clean up. I'll take a shower."

*

After his master strolls out of the room with a joyful whistle on his lips, B reaches around me and picks me up. He doesn't flinch at the wetness between my legs, at the film of sweat on my skin, not even at Ridley's come running down over my thigh. I've never felt as disgusting. I've never been as exhausted.

"'m sorry," B mumbles. 

I would laugh out if I could. Now all I manage is a tired, rough chuckle. "Oh yeah?"

He shifts uncomfortably as he slowly carries me towards the private rooms of the penthouse. "You... you... didn't sign up for this."

I let my head sink back in his arms. My muscles are useless, but my mind craves at the chance to talk. Anything to sort away the memories of what just happened. "Your observation skills are remarkable," I note dryly; almost as dry as my throat feels after hours of crying and begging. "Didn't stop you from letting this happen."

“I’m… I am an active participant in my owner’s desires.” His words are practiced, almost mechanical. "Sir..., he desired it. You."

An active participant. Is that what I was, too? I shiver. I asked for it. I let him do it. I kissed him back.

"Fuck your Sir," I mumble, unable to find a more articulate answer to this horror. 

He stiffens, but doesn't reply, as he carries me into a large bathroom, dominated by a luxurious spa bathtub. Carefully, he lowers me into it, affixing a bath cushion to the tub's side underneath my head. "I, um, will need to cover the bandage."

I tilt my head and lean forward. The fiery pain on my back is almost familiar by now; still white hot and overwhelming and-

The next thing I notice is the flow of warm water over my shoulders, a strong arm steadying me. There's at least two inches of water in the tub. 

"You... passed out, Miss."

I wince at the sight of the foamy water. Pink streaks through it, blood, from between my legs. My inside is throbbing with a new kind of pain. Torn open by the cock Ridley made me beg for. 

It's still real. Fuck this.

B is massaging shampoo into my scalp. He must've nestled the cheap plastic crown out of my hair. I can smell sweat, and the faint truffle scent of the soup that has dried in my strands. 

"Thank you," I say, even though I don't know for what. For not letting me drown in the tub? For treating me like a person? Well, he sure has not done this, when he strapped me down to the couch for his owner to violate me. 

"You shouldn't be here," he mumbles, almost to himself. "You're not made for this."

I can't deny that logic.

"What about you, -? What's... what's your name anyway?"

"B," he says, obviously confused.

"That's a letter, not a name. Is there... anything better? Like, from... before?"

I feel his fingers pause, clench up in my hair the tiniest bit. "048921. Designation Guard Dog / Romantic, Ma'am."

That's a number, not a name. I don't say it.

"I...," He goes on, lifts the shower head to wash out my strands. "Miss, please, it's... B. B is the name my owner gave me."

"I'm Danielle," I say. "Dany. Not what your owner calls me." 

He flinches again, stays silent for a moment, before he softly repeats it. "Dany. That sounds... nice."

It's a weird thing to say in a situation like this. But then again - what the heck would be the normal thing to say? 

He's done with my hair and reaches past me for a brightly pink loofah. Slowly, he works some soap into it. It smells sweet and flowery. A relief, after the stench of sex and sweat. Yet entirely not me. Maybe that's better. Maybe I just need no make all of this not me. If the body that Leo and Ridley have claimed today just isn't mine.

B takes more time than he'd need to, and I realize why, when this big, huge man hesitantly gestures at my naked body with the loofah. "Miss... Miss Dany, is it okay if I... touch you?"

My eyebrows shoot up and a hard chuckle leave my lips. What the fuck. "B. B. Listen to me. Nothing about this is fucking okay. Your fingers have literally been inside me. You've slammed me into a wall. You've tied me up for a fucking rapist to use me. You've been right next to it." I lift my arms in what I want to be a shrug, but comes out as just a useless splash of the low water in the tub. I can't move them. I need him. "This has been a shit day. I really don't care any longer."

It's obviously not the reply he expected. "'M sorry, Miss Dany," he rumbles again, before he kneels down on the gray bathroom tiles next to the tub and leans in over me. His shirt is soaked in the front. "I'm his."

"I'm not," I whisper. I hope it's not a lie. I'm only here, I'm only cared for, because he wants me clean. After I've been a good girl for him. 

I begged him. I fucking begged him to fuck me. I did exactly what he wanted me to do. What's that, if not a crushing defeat. If not utmost subordination. If not the admission, that I am his.

"I know," he replies softly. "You aren't." 

The conviction in his voice floors me. Him, B, the one completely conditioned and devoted to Ridley Lordin, believes me. Contradicts Ridley's words. 

I swallow back more tears.

This man, in this situation, who is being denied all his humanity, tries to treat me like a human.

Before I can reply, the loofah touches my skin. B is gentle, but even the slight brush over my breast, over the tortured nipple, makes me wince in pain. 

B pauses immediately. "Easy... easy lass... Y're alright..." he murmurs. I had barely noticed his Irish brogue before. It's soothing, somehow.

I clench my teeth and nod for him to go on. 

He does. It hurts. On my breasts, on my thighs, on my back where he softly moves around the bandage. Still, every stroke makes the skin move, fresh fire lashing over me.

My tears are silent. I give in.

B pauses again and clears his throat, the loofah hovering above my private parts. What an ironic term, anyway. Leo Luciano pretty much made them my public parts today. 

I lean my head back tiredly, close my eyes, before I lift my hand as high as my shoulders allow me. It reaches barely over my thigh. 

B can't do it. I don't know why, if it's a remnant of decency, or his own pain, and I feel guilty all of a sudden, guilty for just accepting his servitude. 

I wiggle my fingers. "Give it to me," I say. 

He can barely look at me, as he obeys. 

With clenched teeth, I force my weakened arm to clean myself, run the loofah over my bruised thighs, my swollen folds. The touch stings, sends spikes of pain into my lower body. I fight through it, rub off the last traces of Ridley Lordin's come and my own treacherous wetness.  

Finally, I sink back, open my fingers to let the loofah drift away in the dirty water. 

I'm tired.

It's not over. I may be clean now, at Ridley's demand. I doubt that it'll last. First round, he has called it. I don't dare thinking about the next.

Silently, B extends an arm to let me lean against. My head rests on his shoulder. For long seconds, neither of us speaks. 

B tenses up, before I notice it. The joyful hum of some 80's rock song, the slap of bare feet moving in. 

And then, Ridley Lordin leans in the open door, his short auburn hair in messy, wet locks. "Awh, look at that," he croons. "My two beautiful pets. Such an adorable pair. Aren't I a lucky man?"

His gaze is amused, assessing. His silken robe is ridiculously short. I'm still glad that he wears it. I don't want to look at his cock. Daddy's big cock, his voice whispers in the back of my mind. Beg for it.

"Sir." B slings his arm around me and lifts me out of the tub, before he reaches for a towel.

Ridley's gaze wanders me down shamelessly, and he bites his lip. "Fuck. If it weren't so late, I'd take both of you again."

My breath trembles, and I gladly notice B wrapping the towel around me. 

"Our princess has earned to sleep in the bed tonight," Ridley says to B. "You join us, too. My babygirl can be a little hothead. Keep an eye on her."

There's sharpness to his tone, a warning. I don't get it, for a second. Then, I do. I've killed a man today. Had his warm blood spill over me. I'd fought back. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Ridley chuckles at my silence and steps in. He's on eye level with me. "But now, you wouldn't want to hurt Daddy, would you?" 

I shake my head and look away. Want to, yes. Could I? No. I can't even stand, just hold myself up on trembling legs, because B is steadying me.

"Thought so," he muses. "Now, kiss Daddy goodnight. Like you mean it."

He doesn't lean forward. Just tilts his head to the side, with a teasing smile. 

I fucking hate you. I want to scream, yell, punch him. B's grip of me is firmer, suddenly. As if he could read my mind. As if I could be any real threat.

I loosen my shoulders, force my jaw to relax, before I gingerly lean forward. I rest a weak hand on his waist, over the silk of his pathetic bathrobe. He lets out a small, shaking moan. I fight through the hatred, the disgust, the humiliation, as my lips brush over his cheek and find his.

"That's it, baby," he groans, his own hand groping my butt and pulling me flush against him. He's aroused again already. His cock presses between my legs. I sob into the kiss. Still, I move my lips against his, part them, when his tongue pushes forward, reply in turn, deepen it.

It's a kiss. It's just a fucking kiss, I've had hundreds of them with dozens of men, I shouldn't need to cry into it. 

"You're perfect," Ridley whispers, as he releases the kiss and tucks a strand of wet hair behind my ear. "I'm looking forward to seeing you break for me."

After a slap to my butt, he steps back and leaves with a cheery wave.

He only hopes Zima is finished, totally finished with him tonight. Tonight… the thought leaves a bitter taste. Because tomorrow will come, and with it, more of this. How long before it ends? Will it ever? Will he ever escape?

Zima doesn’t elaborate. He only watches. His gaze drags over Victor’s profile, lingering there. For a moment, Zima does nothing but breathe him in. Victor’s skin tightens with revulsion.

Then Zima leans down and presses a slow kiss to his bare shoulder. The contact makes Victor’s whole body seize up. His skin crawls under the ghost of it. Oh God, how he wants to punch Zima.

Silence stretches and Victor is unable to relax. Zima stays there, still half-draped over him, eyes open lazily. Victor can feel the weight of his gaze and the warmth of Zima's breath ghosting against his neck. Seconds pass. Zima’s thumb traces a faint circle against Victor’s arm.

And finally, Zima exhales. A happy, satisfied sound.

The bed dips as he shifts his weight, slow enough that Victor feels every movement. The mattress sighs when Zima finally stands. Victor notices the sudden absence of pressure leaves a hollow behind.

Victor stays still, barely daring to breathe. He clings to the small luxury of empty space beside him. At least he leaves me, he thinks with resentment.

“As I said, you still reek of Vasily.” Zima’s voice drifts from across the room. He picks up his phone, scrolling before dialing someone. Rapid murmur of Russian follows, fluid and unreadable, but something in the tone alerts Victor.

He doesn’t know who Zima is calling or what about and he hates not knowing.

It doesn’t take long before the door swings open. Two figures step in, one familiar, one not. The first is the man Victor had seen earlier in the car. The one who has dragged him here. Well, fuck him. Behind him comes another, broader in the shoulders with an unreadable expression. Who is that? The question barely forms, panic taking over him.

Victor jerks upright. He grabs for the nearest thing within reach—the pillow. His fingers dig into the fabric until it bunches beneath his grip. He drags it to his lap in a desperate motion, pressing it against himself; a futile attempt at defense.

The pillow isn’t protection. He knows it. But he clutches it tighter anyway.

Footsteps sink into the wooden flooring and Victor can hear the faint rustle of fabric as one of the men adjusts his coat. His skin prickles under their gaze; he can feel it crawl across his bare shoulders.

Victor’s mind spirals immediately to the worst possibility. His heart lurches. What if Zima asked them to violate him even further? The thought strikes like cold water down his spine. He grips the pillow harder, his fingers twisting into the fabric. The cotton compresses beneath his palms as his arms tremble. Who knows what he told them?

The men seize him by the arms, their grips professional, and he’s yanked upright before he can protest. The sudden motion sends the room spinning; his feet stumble against the carpet.

Hot cum still oozes from between his thighs, thick and sticky, trickling down the insides of his legs. Shame floods his body so fiercely it burns. He twists, trying to pull free, but their hold doesn’t waver.

“Let me go,” Victor gasps, voice cracking. His face burns crimson. He imagines how he must look—naked, ruined, and dripping with evidence of what Zima just did to him in front of everyone. Fuck this. Fuck everyone involved.

A few steps later, he realizes only then that they aren’t taking him outside, but deeper inside the suite. Every step makes him more aware of how bare he feels. 

A door opens with creak, revealing another space beyond—a smaller, sterile-looking room lit by white lamp. He hadn’t even known it existed. It takes a moment before Victor recognizes what it is. A bathroom. Zima had kept him so distracted, so trapped in his twisted desire, that Victor hadn’t noticed another door was there at all.

The men say nothing as they go about their task. Their silence impenetrable, broken only by the hiss of faucet as one of them twists it open Water thunders into the deep porcelain tub. Medicinal scent of eucalyptus bath salts permeates the sleek bathroom.

Cold air kisses his damp skin as they maneuver him to the bathtub. Gooseflesh instantly erupts, prickling along his arms, his thighs, and the small of his back. Victor is forced to sit, the porcelain shell cold and unforgiving beneath his abused rear. A rough washcloth, soaked under the sink’s scalding tap, is pressed into one man’s calloused palm. The fabric steams faintly when he wrings it out. Droplets hiss against the pristine tiles.

Victor flinches at the first touch dragging down the slope of his shoulder, scraping away dried sweat and the crust of Zima’s release. The man then moves down, stopping at Victor’s stomach. The washcloth hesitates for a second, then scrubs, catching on a patch of dried, tacky residue of his own cum.

They work in tandem, wordless and efficient. One grips Victor’s wrist to hold him steady as the other scrubs. The cloth rasps over his collarbone, his ribs, the tender skin beneath his arms. All the strokes, they peel away the illusion of privacy, leaving him skinned and exposed. Victor’s stomach knots. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the darkness behind his lids only amplifies sensation. Running water roars as Victor can feel the humiliating bare hands on his body.

When they turn him, the world tilts. Water roars louder now, half-filling the bath, sloshing against the sides. Shocking presence of fingers spread his cheeks with impassiveness as Victor’s breath hitches. His shame is a leaden, sickening weight in his belly.

Victor’s thoughts stutter. Don’t look, don’t think.

The washcloth returns, hotter than before, soaked again. It presses between his legs, drags upward in one slow, deliberate stroke. The coarse weave scrapes tender, swollen flesh. The semen still clinging inside him loosens, thins, sluices out in a warm, shameful trickle that mixes with the soapy water dripping down his thighs. He can feel the last threads of sticky residue dissolving.

Then comes the firmer second pass. Victor instinctively flexed his glutes, a useless, reflexive clenching that contributes to nothing. The muscles down there were screaming.

"Stop!" Victor chokes out. He tries to twist away, his chin hitting the side of the tub. "Stop, I can clean it myself." His voice is ragged, desperate for one sliver of control.

The men show no concern. The finger prods at his entrance, circling, passing through his defense just enough to make his knees buckle. The pressure is a dull, violating ache and the intrusion is brief but absolute: a blunt, bare finger swiping clean the last, damning evidence of Zima’s claim. It was enough to make Victor gasp, his body arching an inch off the porcelain before he collapsed back down. Victor feels like being violated for the second time. He’s no human; he’s a marble, a statue to be rinsed and returned.

He stares blankly at the ceiling, feeling every muscle fiber in his rear area throb and ache.

Victor’s face is hot against the cool tub edge. He feels hollowed out, scoured raw. The men still don’t speak.

When they finally leave, the door shuts with a soft click. The silence that follows is disorienting. Victor doesn’t move. He stays where they left him, breathing in shallow bursts, the back of his throat raw with the effort of not making a sound.

Then relief creeps in, shaky and uneven. They’re gone. No eyes on him, no firm hands dictating his movements. He inhales deeply and feels the tremor run through his shoulders. His skin still smells of expensive soap; a milky and layered smell. It would have calmed him if his circumstances were different.

He fumbles for a sponge, a bar of soap—anything within reach—and begins scrubbing. 

The water stings where his skin is already rubbed raw, but he keeps going, pressing harder. His thoughts blur, looping incoherently between apology and disgust. He whispers a name: Vasha, almost a plea yet the walls don’t answer.

Only then does Victor start to really see the bathroom. It’s almost aggressively clean; sterile, spacious, and white. The tiles are marble-slick, the chrome fixtures polished to a mirror sheen. The light overhead is too bright. Even the bathtub feels wrong, too modern, too sleek. Everything about it is meant to impress.

It’s the opposite of the bedroom outside although the modern touch remains. No warm hue, no marble tiling, yet this the same polished and reflective look. The air hums faintly with the ventilation system; the smell of eucalyptus bath salt clings to every surface. Somehow it reminds him of Vasha’s bathroom. Victor runs his fingertips along the porcelain and feels the faint vibration of running water.

He slumps forward, forehead against his knees, the sponge slipping from his fingers. The water in the tub ripples once before going still. For a brief, delusional moment, he imagines Vasha’s hand at the back of his neck, steady and warm.

He stays that way for a long time, head bowed. The comforting scent of eucalyptus drifts upward, herbal and grounding. The smell reminds him of winter air and menthol cough drops. The heat seeps into him slowly, loosening the tremor in his muscles. His misery dulls, settling into a tired ache.

Victor lets his fingers drift through the water. For the first time since the men left, he can think clearly.

His mind drifts to the hotel in St. Petersburg. Everything he owns is still in the hotel: shirts folded in the drawer, trousers draped over the chair, his toothbrush by the sink. He wonders if housekeeping has been through, if someone noticed he never came back.

The thought creeps in slowly, cutting through the haze of warmth. What am I going to wear tomorrow? He doesn’t have anything. No clothes, no bag. Victor is sure Zima has his phone confiscated.

For a moment, he wonders if he’ll be given something to wear, or if they even care. The idea of asking feels humiliating, but so does the alternative. He sinks a little deeper, the water lapping against his jaw.

When the water’s warmth starts to fade, Victor forces himself to move. His skin feels heavy and pruned. His limbs reluctant to obey. He drains the bath slowly, watching the water spiral away until the tub gleams empty again. The air outside the water feels colder than before, and the eucalyptus scent lingers comfortably on his skin.

He wraps a towel around himself and steps out of the bathroom. The change strikes him immediately. The bed, the same one that looked like a crime scene hours ago, is now spotless. The sheets have been replaced, tucked with hotel-like precision. Not a wrinkle in sight. Even the pillows are arranged neatly, their cases crisp and clean.

Victor blinks, unsure how long he’s been in the bath. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. The thought unsettles him; the idea of someone moving silently through the room while he is soaked and unguarded. He scans the space, half expecting Zima's shadow lingering near the door, but there’s no one.

On the bed, a folded set of clothes waits. Upon closer look they're clean pyjamas, white with pastel blue stripes. They look brand new. He hesitates before touching them, glancing around once more, as if expecting someone to claim them back. What if Zima comes back?

When no one does, he reaches out and runs his fingers over the fabric. It’s smooth, finely woven.

He dresses slowly. The fabric slides easily against his skin, warm from the bath, fitting him with uncanny precision. Zima or his men must've inspected his clothes size before. The shirt settles over his shoulders just right, the trousers neither tight nor loose. When the material brushed his rear, a sharp, white-hot reminder flashed through him. The base of his spine throbs with a deep, bruised ache. He winces, sucking in a quiet breath.

But all in all, Victor exhales, realizing how comfortable it feels. He feels how safe the softness is after every deplorable thing that happened today.

Victor sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, not truly resting, but carefully distributing his weight to avoid irritating his violated rear. The clean sheets are cool against his skin, a contrast to the burning heat lingering in his buttocks. He lies down, pulls the blanket to his chest, and stares at the ceiling. His throat tightens, pressure rising up. For the first time since being dragged here, he folds his hands without thinking.

He doesn't offer a formal prayer, no structured supplication, no flowery devotion.

“Please,” he whispers into the silence. “Please, Jesus, my Lord. Not for strength, not for guidance. Just... please, let me go home. Get me out of this pit.”

The words sound strange in this place. His pulse throbs behind his eyes. Everything feels too much here. His kidnapping. Zima and everything he has done to Victor. This fucking place.

He is desperate for the sanctuary of his own church, the wood of the altar railing, the scent of wood polish and old hymnals. His old life is now submerged. Victor feels less like a servant of God and more like a lost sheep.

Victor remembers, uninvited and abrupt, a moment from two months ago. He had been sitting alone in the church office at midnight, the lights off except for the glow of the exit sign. He had been reviewing maintenance receipts. The most mundane work imaginable. Now he missed that moment.

He remembers the soft static buzz of the old desktop computer and the ticking sound of the radiator. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing profound.

He remembers leaning back in the squeaky office chair, rubbing his eyes, thinking he should go home but not wanting to face the cold outside. He had whispered a tired, private complaint to God, perhaps something about long hours and back pain. He had laughed at himself afterward. Complaining over trivial burdens.

His throat tightens. He would trade anything—anything—for those trivial burdens.

As he turns to one side, a different thought cuts through the fog of exhaustion: his blood pressure medicine. He forgot it. He hasn’t taken it since… yesterday? Right, yesterday. He had fallen asleep without taking them yesterday. His pulse quickens at the realization.

How am I supposed to survive here?

The question sinks heavy. His bag is in his hotel and he doesn't know whether anyone here even knows what he needs. The idea of asking Zima makes him recoil. Zima, who enjoys his torment. Zima the posh bastard.

Would he even allow it? Would he find amusement in withholding it, just to see what happens when Victor's blood pressure spikes.

Victor stares at the ceiling again, forcing slow breaths. His mind spirals, replaying the same thought. What if he doesn’t let me live? What if suffering is exactly the fucking point?

Yet somehow, knowing that Zima, in his predatory interest, wants to own him provides a small relief. It’s revolting, but also oddly relieving. Zima doesn’t destroy what he wants to keep. If he means to own Victor, then Victor will live. He’ll live. And if Zima ever tries to push further, Victor swears he’ll find a way to kill him first.

He yawns before he realizes he’s doing it. His body is too tired to keep pace with his mind. The exhaustion is total. He curls under the blanket, the fabric whispering softly as he shifts. The scent of fresh detergent lingers, mixing with the last traces of eucalyptus on his skin. His stomach growls once, a harsh reminder that the only thing he’s eaten today was that slice of chocolate cake Zima ordered for him.

Dreamless sleep overtakes him mid-thought, sudden and merciful.

When he opens his eyes again, the light hasn’t changed. The ceiling looks the same. For a moment, Victor can’t tell if minutes or hours have passed. The room gives away nothing, no window, no natural sound. There’s no morning light, no birds, no clock. Victor feels no sense of time moving forward.

He rubs his eyes, disoriented. The sheets are still smooth beneath his hands. His heartbeat feels steady enough for now. It might be tomorrow, he thinks. Or maybe not. There’s no way to know.

Victor shifts carefully, intending to sit without hurting his rear but something tugs sharply at his wrist. The sound of metal clinking against the bedframe stops him cold.

He looks down. A single handcuff secures his left wrist to the metal post at the head of the bed. Not tight enough to bruise, but close enough to remind him that he's a captive. He tugs experimentally, just once, and the chain rattles softly before falling still.

A familiar rush of panic threatens to rise, but he swallows it, forcing his breath steady. There’s no point screaming. He scans the room instead, his gaze tracing over the same immaculate surfaces he saw before. But something’s changed.

On the desk near the corner, his eyes catch on a shape that shouldn’t be there: his bag. The same one he left in the hotel room. He blinks hard, certain he’s imagining it, but the details are unmistakable--his name tag, the small stain on the zipper pull.

Slowly, disbelievingly, Victor scans further. His phone charger is coiled neatly beside it. His phone and wristwatch rest on the nightstand. Even the small notebook he kept for work lies there, squared to the edge of the surface. Every belonging he thought he’d lost is here.

He glances toward the closet. Hanging there, immaculate under the white light, is his Gucci coat, neatly ironed. It's the same coat he had bought before flying to Russia.

A cold, crawling realization settles in his stomach. They had been watching his every move in Russia.

They had watched him. They had orchestrated this entire nightmare. Zima had orchestrated this. The memory of the vampire's cold, possessive touch from the previous night rises. There is crushing awareness that he was nothing more than property, a toy to be used and put back. The phantom weight of Zima's body presses on him and the taste of hatred wells up in his mouth.

Shifting slightly, he focuses on the pristine room, the Gucci coat, and the neatly arranged belongings. This isn't some chaotic snatch-and-grab. He feels like he’s a pawn, a prize to be collected and cataloged. The thought fuels his defiance. He won't submit to Zima's sickness.

Victor leans back against the headboard, the cuff biting faintly into his skin as he exhales through his nose. The bitterness comes slow and boiling.

And it’s not only Zima. His henchmen too. The thought sparks a fresh wave of blinding humiliation.

He recalls the aftermath of Zima's violation, the way he had been handled by the subordinates. They had bathed him. Without a word, without waiting for his consent, they had lifted his limp aching body and carried him into the bathroom while he’s still leaking cum. He remembers the cold, indifferent efficiency of their actions: their bare hands touching his bare, aching skin, running a washcloth over places Zima had bruised.

Their hands cleaned the sticky remnants of Zima’s cum from his body. It was done with the detachedment of servants cleaning an inanimate object. Like he’s a fucking car that needs washing. There was no lust in their eyes, only service. That was somehow worse, magnifying the shame. His body was simply a mess to be tidied up, his dignity utterly dismissed. The resentment for their intrusion burned in his throat.

Christ, he really needs to get out of here no matter how.

Victor tries once more to pull his wrist free, jerking his arm against the metal loop fixed to the bedpost. The handcuff bites into his skin, a sharp pain blooming under the bone. He hisses and leans back, chest rising and falling with irritation.

His pulse stutters, but his mind tries to catalogue everything. Possible dead zones where he can hide? Only under the bed. Or inside the bathroom. Possible response time if he screams? Likely immediate.

The door then opens without a knock.

An older man enters—late fifties, perhaps, heavyset, with silver hair combed neatly to the side. He wears an apron over a wool sweater and carries a tray with two plates and a teapot. The smell of beef, sour cream, and paprika fills the air. Beef stroganoff.

Victor blinks at the sight, disoriented. His stomach twisted in half hunger, half disbelief.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, watching the man set the tray on the small table near the bed. “Just how many people work in this damn house?”

The man glances at him but says nothing. His expression is mostly neutral, almost impassive.

Victor’s first impulse is to snap. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “Listen,” he begins, voice dry, “I need you to—” He rattles the cuff against the bedpost. “Take this thing off. I’m not going to run, alright? What if–” Fuck, he’s going to say it, isn’t he? “What if I need to use the bathroom?”

The man looks up, meeting Victor’s eyes, before tilting his head slightly. He seems like he’s trying to decipher the words rather than the intent. His brows furrow in confusion.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Victor groans. “You don’t speak English, do you?”

The man gave no verbal response. He merely blinks, then glances briefly at the door as though considering whether to fetch someone else.

Victor tries again, slower this time, gesturing with his free hand toward the cuff, then toward the bathroom door. “Bathroom,” he enunciates. “Do you know? Bath. Piss.”

Still nothing.

The man frowned slightly, muttering something in Russian. Something too fast for Victor to follow. The words bump into each other, swallowed by the accent.

Victor only catches one word: спокойно. Calm down. The tone is reassuring, almost fatherly.

Calm down. As if it’s possible. As if he hasn’t spent yesterday kidnapped, being tied up, having a gun inside his throat, and being humiliated.

He laughs in bitter amusement. “Calm down? You’ve got me handcuffed and you’re telling me to calm down?”

The old man says something else, tone gentler this time. Perhaps it’s an attempt at reassurance. He then points to the tray, miming the action of eating.

Victor stares at the food. Steam rising from the stroganoff, thick sauce coating the beef. It smells damn good. His stomach growls embarrassingly.

The priest doesn’t want to meet Zima but he seems like the only person who would understand what he’s saying, for better or worse. Mostly worse.

The man seems pleased that Victor has stopped raising his voice. Then the older man moves about the room methodically, arranging the plates, pouring tea into porcelain cups, adjusting the napkin on the tray like he’s serving a guest. Finally he leaves a spoon within Victor’s reach.

His efficiency is unsettling. No hesitation, no visible discomfort. Victor realizes then; this man has probably seen it all. He’s not shocked because this isn’t new. Who knows how many times Zima has kidnapped someone before, that sick bastard.

That thought makes Victor’s skin crawl.

He swallows, staring at the plate. The food looks maddeningly delicious. Beef stroganoff, thick ribbons of sauce catching the light. The smell is intoxicating. He nearly drools.

Victor hates himself for it. He hasn’t eaten since the cake yesterday, but he doesn’t want to give Zima the satisfaction of seeing him eat whatever they’ve served. He knows, logically, that the man standing in front of him isn’t his enemy. Just another servant. Another cog in Zima’s machinery. Still, the resentment spills over.

He leans back, frustrated, the cuff clinking against the bedpost again. The iron feels colder now, biting through the thin layer of skin where it’s already reddened.

For a moment, the man just watches him. Then, without a word, he moves toward the door. He hesitates once, just long enough for Victor to think he might say something. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Victor sits still for a moment, listening to the silence that follows. Tension leaks out of his shoulders as he’s finally left alone once more.

The priest stares at the tray. The steam from the food rises in slow, curling ribbons. It smells familiar and comforting.

Intrusively, Victor thinks of Zima again, of that infuriating composure and maddening confidence. He doesn’t want to see him, not ever, but at the same time, Zima is probably the only person here who understands a word he says. The thought makes his chest tighten. It hurts, but it’s the truth.

Yet if Zima walked in now, Victor would probably spit in his face. He sighs into his free hand. This is insane. Batshit insane.

He looks at the tray again. His stomach cramps, angry and insistent. The smell draws him in. After a long pause, he slides closer, awkwardly maneuvering his cuffed arm so he can reach. The motion tugs at his wrist, the metal cutting shallow grooves into his skin. He ignores it.

Then his hands move. He folds them clumsily together—one bound, one free—and bows his head. He says his grace before lifting a forkful of stroganoff and takes a bite.

The flavor hits instantly–savory, rich, perfectly seasoned. Too perfect. Of course Zima would have it that way. Pompous bastard of a vampire.

The meat melts on his tongue, rich with cream and wine. Tender to the point of decadence. It is too good to be instant or prepackaged. Someone has cooked it from scratch. This is hand-cooked, made from expensive ingredients.

Victor chews slowly, savoring the aftertaste that lingers long after he swallows. Smoky paprika. Faint sweetness of onion cooked down until translucent. Maddeningly good.

Oh my God, I am so so hungry.

His mouth waters as he stuffs more of the stroganoff. His fork scrapes against the plate, collecting every smear of sauce. Wolfing down the stroganoff, he feels truly awake now, the pain on his bottom is forgotten. For a fleeting moment, Victor feels human again.

The air now smells of beef and cream, heavy and comforting. It mingles with the slightly bitter aroma of black tea. The combination creates an illusion of domestic calm that feels so disconnected from his predicament.

He pauses only to sip the tea too quickly. It scalds his tongue, a sharp contrast to the richness of the food. But the tea is malty and smoky, just like how he likes it.

The sudden memory of Vasha fills him.

Vasha.

He used to order the cooks to make stroganoff for Victor, too. The same dish. The same creamy, soft dish, always served in the heavy porcelain bowls. He remembers the smell of dill and butter in the kitchen, the faint hiss of boiling pasta, and Vasha’s voice calling from the next room.

As if on cue, the door opens just as Victor scrapes the last bit of sauce from the plate. A man steps in—late twenties, or probably early thirties—with a dark mustache that doesn’t match his long, messy blond hair. His grey oversized jacket hangs loosely, the sleeves stretched. The look gives the impression of a jacket worn to sleep, not for outings.

“So it’s your smell on my car.”

Victor’s head snaps to the stranger’s direction. Finally someone speaks English. Wait–smell. The word strikes him like a slap. His pulse jumps before reason catches up. Humans don’t talk that way. This man is a vampire.

The stranger closes the door behind him with a lazy motion, his expression unreadable. There’s no hunger in his eyes, no tension in his shoulders. His gait is lethargic, almost uninterested, as he walks closer. Messy blond hair catching the light as he moves. Victor watches the way the vampire’s head tilts slightly, desperate to detect a hint of Zima’s sadistic energy.

Victor’s body tenses automatically against the sheets. His mind races, calculating: How fast can this one move? Does he have Zima's personality? Is he here due to Zima’s order or just a curious bystander?

He has to admit that despite his legitimate concern, the man’s presence doesn’t radiate threat. Still, the mention of “my car” lingers uneasily. So it was this vampire’s Mercedes that was used to kidnap him yesterday.

Victor doesn’t sense malicious intent from him so he tries to be civil. His voice comes out weaker than intended despite already having a full breakfast, “I’m Victor.”

The stranger stops a few steps away, studying him like a scanner rather than responding verbally. Victor expects he will reciprocate. But then, with a shrug, “Okay.”

No follow-up, no flicker of interest. Only that single, flat word. Fuck this vampire.

Victor knows he shouldn’t antagonize anyone Zima keeps around, not when he’s still a hostage, but he can’t help it. He snarls, “The fuck do you want?” The man doesn’t even react to the curse word. His hands slip into the front pocket of his hoodie, and the fabric sags over long fingers. “I’m looking around.”

“I’m not a freak show,” Victor glares.

The stranger hums in response, scanning Victor’s belongings.

After hesitating for a few seconds, Victor asks, “Where’s Zima?”

“Coldplay,” the stranger answers, scratching the back of his head lazily.

“Coldplay?” Victor blinks. This makes no sense.

“Coldplay concert,” the stranger answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, his tone casual. Fucking absurd.

Oh. Oh, that Coldplay concert Zima previously claimed was going to see with his daughter. Victor was kidnapped, humiliated, fucked against his will, and Zima–that bastard Zima–is in fucking Wembley.

The tea has gone cold. Victor swallows hard. He wants to laugh, or scream, or throw the tray across the room; he wants to do everything at once. But before he can process the sheer insanity of it all, the vampire speaks again.

“If you let me eat you,” the man says, in the same deadpan tone as before, “I bring PS3. Deal?”

Victor blinks again. The words slow to register. Excuse fucking me.

He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay. There’s something wrong with him. There is blood that drips down his legs, covering the inside of his thighs. There’s blood that drips down his chest and shoulder from teeth marks. His eyes are swollen shut, skin black and red all over. His breathing is shallow and his hips are bruised. If he didn’t know any better, Jesse would think he was dead. He was breathing, at the very least. 

Jesse knelt down next to where Miguel was on the floor. Curled in a ball, face screwed in in a pained expression. Breathing ragged and wheezy. Every breath made a rattling, whistling sound that he figured was his broken nose or some broken ribs. He wasn’t sure which. Either way it didn’t look good. He wondered who had done this to him. Jesse was sure that it wasn’t himself. It wouldn’t ever be Solomon. He was also sure that none of the ranch hands would dare come up to the hayloft to do so. If they had him alone somewhere, without Jesse or Xavier there maybe. 

Oh. Xavier. Jesse shivered, examining Miguel more closely. Blood was dark and sticky on his thighs, but when he looked closer, gently pressing a hand on Miguel’s hip. He realized there was another substance there too. White and slick. It was all over his stomach too. His own probably. 

Xavier finally fucked him then. Fucked him hard and beat him half to death. There was anger in his chest, blossoming into his fingers. Miguel was filthy and bloody and it wasn’t because of him. It was because of Xavier. Xavier laid a mark. Had taken something that was his. Miguel was supposed to be his. Now that Xavier had a taste, he’d want more. That was always the way it was with Xavier. 

His feeling stopped as he heard Miguel whimper when he moved away from Jesse’s hand on his hip. Jesse had thought about fucking him one more time before he picked him up. Finding him bleeding on the hayloft floor like that. It made him feel a warmth in his core. He shoved the thought away when Miguel quietly sobbed. Eyes so swollen tears wouldn't come through. Instead, he picked him up as gently as he could. Covered him with the small blanket Xavier kept up here for him, and slowly left the barn.

Miguel was so light in his arms. Had they really been feeding him so little? Or was he hiding the food somewhere because he wasn’t hungry? Jesse wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if he actually cared or if Miguel looking so small was just deeply unattractive to him. Jesse needed to stop thinking like that, he would end up dropping him if he did. 

Instead of taking him inside the house, where his uncle would undoubtedly be, he took him into the small stables meant for the ranchhands. Jesse found an empty one and gently laid Miguel in the soft hay there. “I’ll be back okay?” 

There was no response. Jesse hummed as he walked away, forgetting about the fact that Miguel could not hear him. 

Solomon, Solomon, he needed to get to Solomon. Solomon would help him. He also wouldn’t tell Xavier. That was the main point now, who could help without alerting Xavier? 

He snuck into the house, stepping along the walls so the boards wouldn’t creak. Making his way up to Solomon's room, he opened the door. “Solomon,” the man did not stir, “Solomon.” 

“Mmm?” Solomon groaned and sat up in bed, braids messy, in his sleepwear. “Jesse? What are you-” “Shhh,” Jesse said quickly. “Miguel needs you. He’s in the ranch hand’s stable.. It wasn’t-” 

“Was it you?” Solomon growled, feet slipping into some shoes. 

“I was about to say no. It was not me. It was..” he glanced backward for a moment to make sure Xavier wasn’t around. “It was Xavier. It’s bad. I think you better be quick.” 

Solomon was already near him, stepping close. His face was passive but there was a steaming anger in his eyes. Jesse stepped out of his way and Solomon walked down the stairs. He followed behind, more out of curiosity for the reaction than anything else. Maybe he also wanted to know if Miguel would survive it. There was a lot of blood. Something curled heavy in his chest, a lead rope in the bottom of his sternum. 

The man collapsed next to Miguel, horrified noise leaving him when they arrived. Immediately he reached to feel Miguel’s pulse. Solomon’s body was tense, face going back to its normal neutral as soon as he found the pulse. 

“You didn’t do this?” 

“Nah. It was Xavier.” “Xavier?” 

Something in Jesse twisted at the heartbroken tone of Solomon. The man knew this was bound to happen, why would he be so sad. Was he sad because it was Xavier? Or because Miguel was so hurt? Jesse didn’t know what to think, but it created a sinking pit in his stomach. Sadness? Anger? He shoved it down, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on. 

“Is he, you know, alright?” 

“I need Henrietta down here.” 

A frown lined his features, making Solomon look even older than he was. Last Jesse checked, Solomon was teetering on the edge of 62 or so. Sometimes he looked it, sometimes he didn’t. When he smiled he lost about 10 years from his face, when he frowned he gained 10 more. Often, Jesse wondered if he was always like that, or if Xavier just did that much of a number on him. 

“Yeah, I’ll get her. I think Xavier is out… should be anyway.” 

“Go get her then Jesse,” Solomon said tersely. 

Jesse hummed, standing up straight and walking off to go find Henrietta. He stepped inside the creaky house, frowning. Xavier sat on the couch, passed out, flask open. He smelled like a brothel. Head tipped back on the couch, mouth open enough to catch flies. Jesse snuck past him. Walking up the stairs and gently opening the door to Xavier's room. 

“Hen?” 

The woman was at the vanity, staring at herself like she was trying to find something she lost. Maybe she had lost something. Being around Xavier usually meant there was a trade off. Something to lose. Even if it was just a part of yourself you didn’t know was there. 

“Jesse?? What the hell are you doin-” 

“Shut up. Solomon’s down in the shed with Migs..” 

“Why? Are they celebrating his birthday down there?” 

Jesse laughed. Celebrate? Birthday? Was it his birthday? God. Xavier did that on his birthday? His stomach churned at the thought. Even he wasn’t that fucked up. 

“I forgot about his birthday,” he mumbled before shaking his head, “nah something bad happened. Again. Solomon asked for you.” 

Henrietta stood up from the vanity, grabbing the lantern and shoving past Jesse. Everyone suspected Jesse when it came to Miguel. Perhaps that was fair. Miguel was his favorite little punching bag after all. Favorite fuck toy. Best dog he’d ever had. But this? This was too far even for him. He’d never do something like that on a birthday, birthdays are sacred. Meant to be good things. 

Jesse always got a silver dollar on his birthday. Lately though, he had stopped using it on himself. There were two redheaded children who lived in the brothel womens houses he’d been buying gifts for. One of them was already eight years old, the other five. They both had his hair. But they didn’t have the signature Reede eyes. They both had their mothers eyes. He dropped gifts off for them and left before they could see or stop him. 

He was self aware. He knew that there was something wrong with him. Jesse's way of thinking was different from other peoples. Feeling things came to him differently. There was no inbetween for him. Sad, angry and happy. There was no inbetween, there was just that emotion and nothing else. He didn’t understand how people could feel happy and sad at the same time. Or angry and sad. Jesse only knew how to feel things one at a time. 

They made their way down the stairs and Henrietta stopped at the sight of Xavier. Jesse watched her carefully, squinting at the scene in front of him. He couldn’t tell what her expression was. She didn’t even whisper when she spoke. 

“I could kill him. I could do it. Right now. It would be easy.” 

“It would be easy,” Henrietta turned toward him. Her face as always was blurry, but he squinted. It cleared slightly and her expression was something between terrified and angry. She always leaned more toward terrified. He sighed. “But you won’t.” 

“Why not? Do you think I wouldn’t?” 

Jesse grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the door. “Solomon wants you Hen.” 

She pulled out of his grip, growling at him. Eyes alight with rage. There was still more fear in them than anything else. Jesse stared down at her, calming himself with a deep breath. 

“I could kill him right now and everything would be better.” 

“But you won’t” Jesse snapped, no longer caring for the loudness of his words. Xavier was passed out anyway. Too drunk to function. He longed for that crisp blackness that came with getting too drunk. 

“How do you know Jesse? Fuck you! I could do it! I could!” 

Jesse growled, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall. Leaning in real close until her face became clear. Fear shining in her eyes. He didn’t squeeze or hold too tight. He just held her there. 

“You can’t do it because you’re still too afraid. You’re not angry enough Henrietta.” Her eyes went wide and the hands on his wrist loosened their grip. “You’re fucking afraid of him and you can’t really kill someone you’re still afraid of.” 

“Is that why you haven’t yet?” 

His chest tightened. “No.” 

“Right.”  

Jesse let her go, stepping back away. “Are you gonna come with me to Solomon or not Hen. You’re gonna wake up him with all your fucking whining.”  

Henrietta looked away, rubbing at her throat as she walked in front of him and out of the house. He followed her. The next steps felt numb. Hollowing him out as they walked to the shed and Henrietta let out a horrified cry as she dropped herself next to Solomon and Miguel. 

Miguel looked better without all of the blood on him. But his eyes were still swollen shut, and bruises littered his body. Ugly black and blue things that were dark enough to blend with the night sky. He curled up in Solomon's lap, still only covered by the thin blanket. He shivered and cried quietly, fucked up hands curled in his lap, head resting on Solomons shoulder. 

“Get out,” Henrietta said, looking back at Jesse.  

“What the hell did I do? I’m helping!” 

“You probably did this to him you fucking little shit.”  

Jesse scoffed and shook his head, “I was waiting until tomorrow to fuck him.” 

Henrietta and Solomon shared a look, frowning at each other. Was it something he said? Jesse felt awkward standing there in silence. He slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. Knees halfway to his chest. 

“I-” he paused, frowning and trying to think of the words, “I think that Xavier, has been losing it lately you know. Gettin’ meaner. Worse. Beatin’ on everyone more than usual. I want to kill him. I ain’t angry enough either, Hen, to kill him. I just wanna leave. I know a way to the river, the Salt River. I went there once on a deal with the Earl’s family. He’s just across it. I’ll do whatever ya want you know? We can go opposite ways once we get there. We just gotta get there.”  

Solomon and Hen stayed staring at him in open mouth shock. What the fuck was that about? Hadn’t they known he’d been itching to leave since he was seventeen? He asked to leave. Wanted to join the army. Thinking about it made the X brand on his back itch. He’d been whipped within an inch of his life, and branded for his threat to the Reede legacy. Jesse never wanted to be a rancher. He wanted to build things. Always liked building his mother things when she was alive. Built her a birdhouse once. Hung it up on the tree outside and watched the red cardinal live there. Raise its children there. 

If he ever got out, he’d probably try a hand at carpentry. 

“We have a plan,” Solomon said suddenly, “We were planning to escape before.” 

“Solom-” 

“Stop Hen. We just needed a place to go. Everything else is ready Jesse. If you’re serious about this. We need to wait for Miguel to heal again. Then we can go.” 

“I think we have to go whether he’s healed all the way or not,” Jesse said. 

“We know that! But he needs to at least be able to walk when we leave idio-” 

“Henrietta,” Solomon's gentle voice cut her off. “He knows. He knows.” 

Jesse hummed slightly, glancing down at Miguel, who had since stopped shivering and now was sufficiently asleep. Snoring softly, mouth slightly open, face half pressed into Solomon's shoulder. Fuck. Xavier could have killed him. 

He could have killed him and Jesse would have been alone. Jesse knew that Henrietta and Xavier hated him. But Miguel and Solomon. They were still kind even if Miguel bit and scratched at him. Even if Solomon stared at him like he was some sort of rabid animal. Miguel was the one who still looked at him like a person. He made him feel like a person. He liked Miguel, he really did. When Miguel wasn’t terrified of him, he was sarcastic and shy. Miguel was pretty in pain, but he’d seen him laugh with Solomon once and that was even prettier.  

How could he possibly ever be good enough for that laugh? 

The answer was simple, it was plain. He never would.  

Jesse wished he could go back and stop himself from fucking Miguel in that stall. The first time. But you can’t go back. No matter how hard you try, you can’t go back. Jesse could only deal with what he had. 

He was going to escape with a roomful of people who hated him. 

“So.. tell me about this plan you have.” 

____

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