Another Man's Treasure Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Would you suck my dick for this toast, Ilia?”

  Ilia stared at the plate. Nothing remained but crusts. His stomach growled. He raised his gaze. “No.”

  “I will ask you again tonight,” Nick said. He pushed his chair back, the legs squealing on the hardwood floor.

  “Wait!”

  Nick didn’t rise. He leaned back. “What?”

  “I already sucked your dick last night,” Ilia said, squaring his shoulders. “So you owe me that toast.”

  Nick was silent for a moment. An expression Ilia couldn’t read flashed across his face. Then he put his head back and laughed. “Oh yes! You are a clever one, aren’t you?” He rose. “No, you stay. Stay right there.”

  Ilia watched warily as Nick rounded the table and stood beside him. He held the plate of crusts in his hand, and slid it onto the table in front of Ilia. It wobbled loudly before it settled.

  Ilia reached out.

  “No,” Nick said.

  Ilia clasped his hands together on his lap.

  “Now then.” Nick leaned back against the table. He lifted his foot and placed it against the leg of Ilia’s chair. Shoved the chair back, the legs screeching, so that Ilia was facing him on an angle. He reached for a crust, and lifted it. “Open.”

  Ilia obeyed. He tried not to let his disgust show as Nick rubbed the crust over his lower lip before slowly feeding it into his mouth.

  “Bite,” Nick said.

  Ilia did so, and swallowed. When he opened his mouth again, Nick popped the second half of the crust inside.

  “Put your hands behind you,” Nick said. “And your legs apart.”

  Ilia felt more exposed than he’d ever been. His stomach, his cock and balls, all unprotected.

  “Good.” Nick reached for another crust. “This time suck it.”

  Ilia closed his lips around the crust. Sucked. He stared into Nick’s face while he did it, determined not to be humiliated by this. Nick’s gaze was focused on his mouth, on the gentle suction pulling on the crust. Ilia’s stomach growled again, and Nick chuckled softly.

  “Yes, you are hungry.”

  Ilia fought to keep the scowl off his face. Of course he was fucking hungry. What the hell was wrong with Nick? A fuck-up, Mikhail had called him. But he was more than that. He was volatile. He was impulsive. He did what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone.

  When he was a teenager, that’s what Ilia had wanted to be. He’d wanted to be unafraid. He’d wanted to do whatever the hell he liked, and not give a damn what anyone thought. He wanted to be a rebel, a rockstar, something. But really, nobody was truly fearless. To be truly fearless wasn’t something admirable. It was pathological. To do whatever you wanted with no care or thought for any other person, for any rule of law or society because you just didn’t understand it; that wasn't a rebel. That was a sociopath.

  “What’s his problem?” Ilia had asked Mikhail once, and Mikhail had only frowned and waved the question away. Not because he didn’t have time for the question, Ilia had realized later, but because there was no answer to it.

  “Bite,” Nick said.

  Ilia bit and swallowed the piece of crust.

  Nick smiled. “This time, do not bite.” He lifted his hand to Ilia’s mouth.

  Ilia sucked Nick’s index finger between his lips. His face burned, but he kept his gaze fixed on Nick’s.

  “You have lips as full as a woman’s,” Nick said. “They pout. They didn’t seem so pretty last night when they were stretched around my cock.”

  Ilia stared at him.

  “Where is your tongue?” Nick asked. He withdrew his index finger, and then pushed it back into Ilia’s mouth along with his middle finger. “Use your tongue, Ilia. Show me why my brother spent so much money on a palace to put his little princess in.”

  Ilia let his eyes fall half-closed.

  Nick’s fingers tasted like butter and marmalade. Ilia sucked them gently at first, sliding his tongue under the fleshy pads to steal the flavor. Then he applied more suction, hollowing his cheeks. He made his tongue into a point and stabbed at Nick’s fingers. He made himself moan.

  “Ah,” said Nick. He shifted, then abruptly pulled his hand free. He wiped his fingers down the front of Ilia’s shirt. “I see.”

  “Do I get breakfast for that?”

  “You’ve had breakfast, Ilia,” Nick said.

  “Are you going to starve me to death?”

  “No. Not to death.”

  “You’re an asshole. I don’t know what you want from me,” Ilia said. “I really don’t.”

  “I want to play with you.” Nick rubbed Ilia’s shoulder, then slid his hand to his back, to the first rings. “I want to pull all your strings.”

  He carried the plate into the kitchen.

  Ilia listened to the whir and grind of the garbage disposal as Nick fed the rest of his crusts down the sink.

  VIII

  Ilia stood in the bathroom, his back twisted toward the large mirror. He tugged the ribbon out of the rings, watching as it slithered through. The end of the ribbon dropped to the floor and trailed through a puddle there. Ilia rolled his shoulders. He could feel the rings in his back, but there was no real pressure. Just enough weight to remind him they were there.

  He balled the ribbon up into his fist and glared at his reflection.

  He’d go out on the balcony tonight, that’s what he’d do. And then what? Try and climb down to the neighbor’s, or fall to his death? Might not die. You heard stories about people falling from twenty, thirty stories and living. Even falling was a better option than staying here with Nick.

  He’d start a kitchen fire like Nick almost had. The smoke alarms would get a fire team here.

  But the alarms hadn’t gone off when Nick had burned the kettle.

  Disabled, probably.

  He’d steal Nick’s phone when Nick was sleeping and call 9-1-1.

  He wasn’t a prisoner in his own home. That was ridiculous. Nick hadn’t dragged him to some abandoned warehouse; wasn’t keeping him in chains. Ilia lived here, and there was a way out.

  He just couldn’t shake the terror that anything he tried was going to get him shot.

  “What are you doing?” Nick demanded.

  Ilia turned back to the doorway. He opened his fist and showed Nick the ribbon. He thought he might be angry, but Nick only shrugged. “Get in your bedroom.”

  Ilia stooped to pick up his shirt, but Nick stepped forward before he could put it on, and pulled it from his grasp. He stuck it in his pocket.

  Ilia walked down the hallway to his bedroom, Nick behind him.

  “Lie down,” Nick said.

  “Why?”

  “Lie down,” Nick repeated. “And find some way that is comfortable, or you might not like how I put you.”

  God.

  His side, then. He didn’t want to make it too easy for Nick. Didn’t want to look him in the face either. On his side. From behind, at least he wouldn’t have to hold himself up. Ilia crawled onto the bed and settled on his side. He hunched his shoulders and drew his legs up. The bed dipped as Nick sprawled behind him. He tugged on one of Ilia’s rings and Ilia sucked in a shuddering breath.

  “I’m going out.” Nick’s breath was warm on his shoulder.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to kill Lawrence Upsiller.”

  Ilia sat up quickly, and twisted around to stare at Nick. “Really? Did he have something to do with Mikhail’s death?”

  Someone, he thought, might have set Mikhail up. Someone must have come forward with enough evidence for the police to get their botched fucking arrest warrant. And Mikhail had never trusted Upsiller. Ilia felt a sudden sickening rush of warmth toward Nick, because yes, the man who had betrayed Mikhail deserved to die, and at least Nick knew that too.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said calmly.

  Ilia turned cold. “Then why?”

  “Someone has to die,” Nick said. “If he is
the traitor, good. If he is not, it makes no difference. I kill Upsiller, and no other man will challenge me. If I am to be my brother’s heir, I must first avenge his death.”

  “You weren’t his heir,” Ilia said. “You weren’t trusted.”

  “What do you know about the business, Eli Porter?”

  “I know that much.”

  “Things are different now.” Nick sat up. “Lie down.”

  Ilia rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. He heard Nick’s shoes whispering over the carpet, and then Nick spoke, his mouth close to Ilia’s ear.

  “I don’t know how long I will be.”

  Ilia nodded, keeping his eyes closed.

  Nick’s mouth brushed his jaw. “You will stay here.” He ran a hand down Ilia’s arm, circling his wrist with his fingers and tugging Ilia’s arm out.

  Ilia opened his eyes. Nick was winding the black satin ribbon around Ilia’s wrists and tying it tight. He wrenched Ilia’s arms upward, winding the other end of the ribbon to one of the slats in the headboard.

  “Nick?” Ilia jerked against the bonds. “Does anyone else know I’m here?”

  Nick straightened and flashed him a smile. “Better hope I kill Lawrence Upsiller and don’t get killed myself.” He stroked Ilia’s cheek with his thumb. “It might take weeks for the neighbors to complain about the smell.”

  “Nick!” Bile rose in Ilia’s throat. “Jesus, Nick, please!”

  Nick’s smile became smaller, more private. His eyes were hazy, dilated. He winked at Ilia and left the room.

  The front door closed, the lock clicked, and Ilia was alone.

  IX

  Once Nick was gone, Ilia began pulling on the ribbon. It wasn’t that strong. It would break if he pulled hard enough.

  The shit thing was, he didn’t want to break it.

  Fuck him and his lousy sentimentality. The ribbon belonged to Mikhail. To both of them. Mikhail had laced Ilia tenderly, playing with the rings as he drew the ribbon through. And Ilia had shivered as the satin dragged across his back, then tensed with a small, wonderful fear when Mikhail had pulled the laces tight at the bottom, putting pressure on all the rings at once.

  Nick hadn’t even shut the bedroom door, let alone locked it. Which meant he was convinced Ilia couldn’t get out of the apartment even if got free from the headboard.

  Still, Ilia had to try.

  He closed his eyes and pulled in short, sharp jerks. The satin squeezed his wrists, hurt like fuck, and the headboard creaked. Eventually, the ribbon snapped. He brought his wrists to his mouth and worked the knot with his teeth until his hands were free.

  He left the bedroom and went to the front door. Rammed it with his shoulder. Attempted various combinations for the key code. Pounded and screamed for help. Nothing.

  He stomped on the floor for a while. The downstairs neighbors would be at work, but just in case, Ilia moved to different places in the apartment and stomped, pounded, shouted.

  The kitchen window faced another residential building across the road. Ilia tried to force the window open, and when he couldn’t, he bashed it with the kettle, with a chair—Nick had left the chairs out. An accident? He even tried to lift the coffee table from the living room, but it was too heavy, and Ilia’s body was too weak from hunger. Whatever the new pane was made of was strong as fuck.

  The door to his study was locked, and for some reason, that angered him more than anything.

  He went to the balcony. Opened the doors and stepped out. The air soothed his raw nerves, lessened his panic in some small way. He wasn’t a prisoner. Not if he could breathe air like this—city air, sure, but at least it wasn’t stale like the apartment. At least it wasn’t the smell of Nick’s cock, or of food he couldn’t eat. He flexed his back to feel the weight of the rings. He wasn’t free, never had been. His whole life under his father’s thumb, and then belonging to Mikhail, which was a choice. Wasn’t fear, but maybe it wasn’t free either.

  He took a deep breath and screamed, “Help!” Screamed it again. It was a weekday morning. Most people weren’t home. What had once seemed comforting about the apartment—the isolation, the top floor location, the quiet street—now seemed sinister. He could hear the sounds of the city, but he couldn’t see the action. Nick must have been pretty fucking confident Ilia wouldn’t be able to get anyone’s attention, if he’d left off putting locks on these doors. Ilia yelled until his voice was raw, but his pleas were lost in the wind, the exhaust, the honks and groans of nearby traffic.

  He slipped to his knees and clutched the iron rails, stomach contracting painfully. He couldn’t go much longer without a full meal. There were no toeholds on the outside of the building, no way to climb to another balcony or to the fire escape. He could make one of those knotted sheet ropes, but that seemed ridiculous, like it wouldn’t work outside of movies.

  Still, what were his other options?

  He breathed hard, blackness lapping the edges of his vision.

  Fuck no. Had to stay conscious.

  He crawled back inside. Looked around for something to write with, something to write on.

  He checked drawers, cabinets, the trash.

  Nick had that briefcase full of Mikhail’s papers and pens, but it was locked in the storage closet.

  How crazy, how fucking insane that he was finally alone, finally had a chance to write a message, and there was no way to do it.

  He went to the fridge and took out the bag of molding carrots. Forced himself to eat one as he contemplated his options. He emptied the bag and stared at it. Would it work as a writing surface? He could write in blood, he supposed, but blood wouldn’t stay on plastic.

  Maybe one of the cupboard doors?

  He tried to pull one off its hinges. No luck. He was too fucking weak. The room spun, a parade of shadows, and his head throbbed.

  He went back out to the balcony and sank to his knees again, throwing up bile and carrot. Felt a little better after that. A little steadier. He lay flat on his stomach, staring down at the empty street. Started to close his eyes.

  A flash of movement stopped him. Someone was walking down the sidewalk below. Ilia saw red hair.

  Patrick.

  He was too high up; his vision was too black for him to tell if it really was Patrick. But he hoped. God, he hoped, and he didn’t know why.

  Patrick had packed up his table and his lotions so quickly that day. He’d mumbled an apology to Mikhail and one to Ilia, though he wouldn’t look at either of them. He’d been disgusted, afraid.

  But Patrick had been gentle when he’d touched Ilia. Patrick wasn’t frightening. Patrick was kind, too kind to hurt Ilia even when Mikhail Kadyrov told him to. Even when it gave Ilia pleasure.

  Patrick had looked Mikhail in the eye and said he still wanted half the price of the massage.

  Mikhail had paid him the full price. Plus a tip so massive the bills were banded together.

  Ilia watched through half-closed eyes as the slim figure passed eight stories down. Opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a croak. He tried again and again, getting nothing more that a squeak with each puff of air. He could drop something over the rail to get the guy’s attention. But what? He couldn’t even stand, let alone pick up what few objects were left in the house.

  The plant.

  The Brugmansia was just inside the balcony doors, on the living room floor.

  Ilia could drop that.

  He tried to stand but staggered and fell, blackness swarming him.

  When he next became aware of his surroundings, the red haired man was gone. Had minutes passed? Hours? Nick still wasn’t home—at least, Ilia didn’t think so.

  He crawled back into the living room. Tried to move the TV, but it was bolted down. He headed to the kitchen. He pulled himself to his feet using the counter. Stared at one of the empty glass door cabinets for a moment, gathering his strength.

  He punched it as hard as he could.

  The pane shattered. Ilia’s hand wa
s covered in bright ribbons of blood.

  He gave a gasping, nervous laugh and picked up the biggest piece of glass he could find.

  Staggered to the bedroom to wait for Nick.

  X

  “Eli?” Nick called from the kitchen.

  Ilia wasn’t sure how long Nick had been home. He’d woken when he’d heard the front door open, and had been too nervous to go back to sleep. But he also couldn’t make himself move. So he’d dozed anxiously, and Nick had left him alone so far, shuffling around in the kitchen.

  A sharp pain in his palm.

  He was still clutching the shard of glass. There was a large, dark patch of blood on the sheet.

  He tensed, but didn’t answer. His throat felt full of rocks and dust.

  “Come in here, please.” Nick’s voice was calm. None of that ugliness that had been in his tone when he’d called Ilia a whore, ordered him to suck his dick.

  Ilia tried to pull himself together. He had to be ready, when Nick came in. Ready to attack. He stared at the glass. At his mangled hand. His gaze went to the door, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t get out of bed.

  Nick’s footsteps in the hall. His silhouette in the doorway. Ilia shut his eyes. Felt Nick hover over him, then the covers were drawn back, and Nick was pulling on two of his rings, the pain sharp, the panic sharper.

  Ilia’s yelp tore at his damaged throat, and he tried to get up, tried to move in any way that would lessen the pressure on the rings.

  He slashed blindly with the glass, and Nick caught his wrist. Nick’s grip on the rings relaxed. “What is this?” He released Ilia and snatched the shard easily from his hand. Held it up.

  A rivulet of blood ran down the surface, the light catching it, adding a beautiful dimension to the color. Ilia went still.

  Nick laughed, a very soft sound, and turned his gaze back to Ilia. “Eli.” He glanced at the dark spot on the sheet. At Ilia’s hand. “What did you mean to do? Kill me?”

  Ilia couldn’t answer.

  “Get up.” Nick didn’t raise his voice.

  Ilia sucked in air, swallowed. Closed his eyes.

  Nick hauled up so suddenly on the rings that Ilia shrieked, certain his skin would tear. Nick let go abruptly and slapped Ilia’s ass. “Get up.”