Another Man's Treasure Page 9

  Ilia closed his eyes. Patrick touching him would be better than Nick touching him. No reason to fight it.

  Fuck Nick for thinking he could rile Ilia.

  Life was what it fucking was. Mikhail was dead. Ilia was a prisoner in his own sanctuary.

  He wasn’t going to let his stomach turn anymore at the sight of fingers smashed with a hammer. At broken bones. Wasn’t gonna flinch from Nick, or from anybody ever again. He’d been Mikhail’s little princess, and what a fucking foolish, helpless life that had been. Not anymore. He was something darker now. His blood felt too hot, his mind uneven, but at least he didn’t feel weak.

  “Oh,” Patrick whispered, though Ilia wasn’t sure why.

  Fuck Patrick and his soft voice, his gentle hands. He was asking to be broken. Maybe Ilia would break him. Scare him away, like last time.

  He arched so that the covers slid down, revealing his naked body. He folded his arms under him and covered the patch of dried blood with his chest, so Patrick didn’t have to see.

  “Uh, Il—Eli?” Patrick said, from right next to him. “Is this gonna be okay for you? I know you must be… I’m sorry about Mr. Kadyrov.”

  “This will help.” Nick’s voice.

  “Do as he says,” Ilia ordered Patrick hoarsely.

  And here it was, the seed of an idea—he could ally himself with Nick, against Patrick. Together they could crush this timid, anxious kid.

  Better than being crushed.

  “A Swedish massage,” Patrick said. “Like last time. It might make you feel better.”

  “I feel fine.” Ilia opened his eyes and stared at Patrick, hating him. “Just fucking fine.”

  Patrick nodded. He seemed… Ilia couldn’t tell. Not quite resigned. And not exactly nervous. But not comfortable either. “Put your arms by your sides, please.”

  Ilia did. Patrick moved to the edge of the bed. Placed a bottle of lotion on the mattress and squirted some into his palm. He started at the base of Ilia’s neck again, pushing out across his shoulders. His palms were cool. Ilia’s muscles seized and released uncertainly as he fought a longing to relax under the touch.

  As Patrick moved lower, Ilia arched again and gave the most whorish moan he could manage. Patrick hesitated only a second, then continued.

  What had brought Patrick back here, when last time he’d been so fucking freaked out he’d bailed?

  Money. Patrick was a greedy fuck. Like Nick.

  Patrick kept away from the piercings, just like last time. Ilia closed his eyes and shuddered as Patrick smoothed each muscle, using his fingers, his palms, the heels of his hands. Why the fuck did it have to feel so good?

  Ilia pumped his hips against the bed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Oh, yeah, you fucker, keep doing that.”

  He felt Patrick hesitate again. Heard Nick laugh.

  “The rings,” Nick said casually. “So strange. I had not seen anything like them before.”

  “Me neither,” Patrick said. He pressed the heels of his hands into Ilia’s shoulders, and Ilia’s muscles yielded to the pressure.

  “They are stronger than they look, probably,” Nick said. “I wonder if they would hold his weight.”

  The chair kicked away. The rat’s bones cracking. Screams going on and on.

  Patrick’s hands twitched. “What?”

  “Maybe not,” Nick said. “His arms and legs would be too heavy, I suppose. But with anchor points in his wrists and his ankles, behind his knees...well, I wonder if such a thing could be done.”

  Ilia kept his eyes closed. He wasn’t even afraid. If the mad fucker tried it, his skin would rip. That would be the worst of it. It was only pain. Ilia didn’t fool himself into thinking he would be unaffected by pain—he was sure he would scream and thrash and beg like any of Nick’s victims. But those men had taught him something valuable as well. It was pointless to try and stop Nick Kadyrov from doing whatever the fuck he wanted. It was pointless to be afraid of the inevitable.

  Patrick had tensed, his fingers trembling against Ilia’s shoulders.

  “Nick,” Ilia said, turning his head with an effort and opening his eyes. “When you talk, I lose my erection.”

  Patrick pulled his hands back.

  Nick waved his hand at Ilia. “Go on then, please. Hump the mattress like a dog.”

  “Touch me again, asshole,” Ilia said to Patrick. He held Nick’s gaze as they both waited to see just how badly Patrick wanted his money.

  For what seemed like a long time, Patrick didn’t do anything. Then he rubbed Ilia’s shoulder briefly, sympathetically, like a parent comforting a child. “I think I’d better go,” he whispered. “This isn’t what I do.”

  “Oh, no, no. Stay,” Nick said.

  At the same time, Ilia shouted, “It’s what you do now, you greedy piece of shit! You want your money, you do whatever the fuck he tells you. You fuck me, you suck me off, you rip those fucking rings out. You hear?”

  Nick looked surprised and impressed. “Ah, Patrick. You see how much he wants this?”

  “I don’t even know what this is.” Patrick’s voice shook, but with what sounded more like anger now than fear.

  “You must need the money.” Ilia pushed himself up so that he was kneeling, staring at Patrick. “You’ve come here twice. And now you’re chicken shitting out again. Which is it, Patrick? You want the money or don’t you?”

  Patrick looked back at him, pity in his expression. Ilia hadn’t expected that. He’d expected fear. Confusion. Maybe even anger. But not this quiet sympathy. “I know it’s hard,” he said softly. “Losing someone. I know.”

  Ilia smiled nastily. Turned to Nick. “You believe this fucker? What fuckin’ convent did he step out of, huh?”

  Nick smiled back, and Ilia felt a rush of warm pleasure. Allies. “Do not yell at him,” Nick chided mildly. “He’s trying to do what he thinks is right.”

  Ilia turned back to Patrick. “That so? This what you think is right? He offers you cash, and you come here knowing full well who he is?” He shifted so that Patrick could see the bloodstain on the sheet.

  There was the fear in Patrick’s eyes now, Ilia noted with satisfaction. Satisfaction, and then something harder to name. Shame and terror, twisted together. Patrick might be his only chance, his only fucking chance to get out of here, and Ilia didn’t know what to do. It seemed simple when you watched movies where people were captured. Now, you idiot! Now, when he’s not looking—run for the door! You spotted a dozen things the character might use as weapons; counted moment after moment the dumbass should have made a break for it.

  But for Ilia, there was no clear-cut escape path. No perfect moment to signal for help. If he attempted to escape and failed, that was it. He was dead. Or if he wasn’t dead, his punishment would be something he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate.

  Confusion drove into him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He didn’t want to be afraid, didn’t want to think about escape. He wanted to be Nick’s ally again.

  He felt Nick’s eyes on him, and he rose higher on his knees, thrusting his hips forward so his half-hard cock pointed at Patrick.

  “You ever even seen one of these before, ’sides your own?” Ilia asked, gripping his shaft and pumping.

  Patrick took a step back. “I’m leaving.” He glanced at Nick. “I came here to give a massage, not play some kind of—of sex game.”

  Ilia pulled on his cock, angry that it wouldn’t stay hard. He waited for Nick to tell Patrick to stay and finish the job, but Nick just watched, a slight smile on his face.

  As Patrick headed for the door, Ilia gave up jerking off with a loud exhale, sinking back onto his heels. Nick crossed to the bed suddenly and sat beside him. “Patrick?” Nick called. Patrick turned. He’d left his bottle of lotion on the bed. His hands were clenched, his jaw set, determined and somehow childlike. Ilia had a sudden vision of a red-haired kid on a school playground, giving the same look to bullies who were about to beat the shit out of him. “This is how you
do it.”

  A crack, like a tree splitting in a storm. The back of Nick’s hand connected with Ilia’s cheek, and Ilia fell sideways, barely catching himself. Nick grabbed his hair and wrenched him up. Forced his head down so his chin was touching his chest.

  “You shut him up,” Nick said calmly. “And then you touch him any fucking way you want.” He stuck his other hand under the ribbon and pulled up. Ilia felt the strain on the rings—sharp pain, thick spikes of it thrust into his skin and deeper and deeper until his stomach clenched hard. Nick kept pulling the ribbons, twisting Ilia’s hair until Ilia finally screamed.

  “Stop,” Patrick said, stepping back into the room. “Stop!”

  Nick eased up. Ilia could hear the amusement in his voice when he spoke. “This is how we play the game. Eli likes to put on shows. He put on a very good one for me once.”

  “It’s not a game.” Patrick’s voice shook. Ilia could only see him from below the waist, because Nick had his head forced down again. Scuffed leather shoes. Khakis wrinkled from the dryer. Someone needed to teach the Junior Geek Squad how to iron. “You’re hurting him.”

  “Ohhh, but he likes it.” Nick yanked on the rings again. Ilia felt a trickle of blood from one of the holes. “Right, Eli?”

  “I don’t care what he likes,” Patrick said angrily. “He’s lost someone. He’s grieving. You don’t need to do that to him.”

  “Oh-ho-ho! Yes, Eli grieving for the man he played whore to. Brings a tear to my eye.” Nick dragged his hand down Ilia’s back. “Better treat him…” He snaked around Ilia’s side to grab Ilia’s cock. Ilia squirmed, then gasped as Nick squeezed. “Gently.”

  “Let him go right now,” Patrick ordered. “Or…”

  “Or what?” Nick wasn’t quite laughing, but he sounded close to it.

  Patrick wasn’t foolish enough to finish his threat.

  Somewhere amid the panic and the waves of pain, Ilia felt a frantic, fleeting gratitude toward Patrick. A quiet shock. He’d taken Patrick for someone weak, easily frightened. Yet Patrick would stand up to Nick Kadyrov—for Ilia. And all Ilia had done in return was try to humiliate Patrick.

  Nick released his hold on Ilia’s hair. Pulled his other hand out from under the ribbons. “All right, Patrick. Go ahead and give your massage. I won’t get in your way. Neither will Eli.”

  “I’m going home,” Patrick said firmly, gaze cutting from Nick to Ilia.

  Nick shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His hand strayed toward his pocket, where he kept his pistol.

  Ilia closed his eyes. Forced them open again. Nick hadn’t touched the gun.

  “I paid for an hour,” Nick said. “And you’ve barely started. So you have—shall we say fifty minutes?”

  Patrick met Nick’s gaze. Ilia could see him shaking.

  “I think you’ll find,” Nick continued, “that doing what you’ve been hired to do will be preferable to the consequences if you don’t.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him,” Patrick said firmly.

  Ilia almost laughed. What the fuck was this kid doing playing hero? He’d lose.

  Nick nodded. “You don’t have to. You can touch him anyway you want. But you have to touch him for fifty minutes. Do as I say, and you’ll walk out of here in less than an hour. With your money.”

  Patrick’s gaze moved to the door.

  “Starting now.” Nick sat again and gestured from Patrick to Ilia. Patrick took a shaky breath and stepped closer to the bed. Stopped.

  “Just do it,” Ilia murmured. He met Patrick’s gaze and put all of his effort into a silent plea. Please, please. Do the massage, then leave and tell someone. Please tell someone I need help. “Please?” He took a breath. Dropped his voice so only Patrick could hear. “I’d rather have you than him.”

  Patrick was silent, frozen. Then he nodded.

  Ilia stretched out again on the bed. He felt much more naked this time. He’d had his anger cloaking him before, but now he felt stupid, weak. Ashamed. His face still throbbed where Nick had hit him.

  “Patrick?” Nick’s voice, soft and drawling.

  Patrick flinched. “Yes?”

  “You can touch him any way you like. It’s your choice. But I want you clear on your options.”

  “Okay,” Patrick said tersely.

  “You can fuck him. That’s what he’s here for.”

  Ilia laughed, a high, sharp sound.

  “Shhhh,” Patrick whispered, angling away from Nick. And that single sound, just between them, cut through Ilia’s rising hysteria. Ilia went quiet. It was too exhausting to make sense of his own feelings. His anger, his terror. The darkness that seemed now like it had always been a part of him.

  “Touch yourself, Eli,” Nick said softly.

  Ilia lifted his hips and placed a hand underneath his body. Stroked his cock as Patrick pushed into the muscles above his hips.

  He couldn’t get hard. His body trembled and his stomach wrenched, sick, tight. No one who loved him would ever touch him again, and that thought created a pit in the center of him, a junkyard. He let out a strangled cry of frustration and collapsed, sobbing silently into the pillow.

  Nick didn’t say anything.

  Didn’t say anything either when Patrick sat on the edge of the bed beside Ilia and rubbed Ilia’s back. Not massaging—just making soft circles with his palm until Ilia’s breathing steadied. Ilia didn’t know how long it went on. Didn’t know why Nick stayed silent. But he felt himself sinking into an odd almost-sleep. Patrick might hate him, but he wasn’t cruel about it. And it had been a long time since Ilia had been able to rest.

  Patrick’s hand drifted up to the back of his neck and stroked, his thumb slipping under the fringe of Ilia’s hair. Ilia sighed.

  Mikhail used to do that. Early in the morning before Ilia was fully awake.

  If it was a workday: “Goodbye, Ilie. I have to go now.”

  Goodbye, Ilie.

  I have to go.

  Havetohavetohavetohaveto.

  Ilia lost himself there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  The next morning, the kitchen cupboards were stocked again. Ilia stood in front of the open doors and stared. Didn’t touch though. Not until Nick came up behind him and slid his arms around his waist. Rested his chin on Ilia’s shoulder. “Yes, you can eat when you want now. It’s time you got some strength back.”

  Ilia wondered if he’d passed some sort of test during Patrick’s visit. If his irrational anger had impressed Nick. Maybe, perversely, he respected Ilia for what had happened in that room. Respected him for turning himself into Nick’s accomplice, instead of his victim. Because there was no doubt in Ilia’s mind now. He’d stared into Nick’s eyes and they’d understood one another.

  “What are the rules?” Ilia shifted as Nick slid a hand down his loose pajama pants. “For the food.”

  Nick rubbed his abdomen. “You eat what you want.”

  “No limits?” I don’t have to eat out of your fucking hand?

  “You and me, we have an understanding now,” Nick said. “I treat you like a man, and you act like one, yes?”

  Ilia’s cock stirred as Nick brushed it with his palm. “Yes.”

  “I won’t coddle you like Mikhail did.”

  “No,” Ilia agreed. He didn’t want that from Nick. Couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t want it from anyone. He was harder now than he’d been before. He wasn’t weak anymore.

  “I do not want you how he wanted you,” Nick said. He squeezed his fingers around Ilia’s dick, and Ilia moaned and pressed his ass back into Nick’s crotch. “I do not want you to sit at my feet. I want you to stand at my side.”

  Ilia stared into the cupboard.

  Who do you think I am?

  That slut who was fucked by your brother while you watched? He wanted to make you jealous, wanted to tease you, but I wasn’t him. Not always. And now who am I, with all the soft edges knocked off? Hardened and honed, is that who you want?

  Is th
at who I am?

  “You think you’ve made a wolf out of me,” Ilia said.

  “I have,” Nick replied. He nuzzled Ilia’s throat. “You know, Ilia, I think your father was very foolish, not to see what a treasure he had. Not to see your strength.”

  Ilia’s throat hurt. He felt a strange pull inside him. A steady warmth: blood and hope. His new self, standing here, taking power from Nick’s words.

  Nick kissed his jaw hard. “Eat. Get strong. Prove me right, Ilia.”

  II

  Ilia turned from side to side so that he could see the black ribbon in the bathroom mirror.

  “Ilia!”

  Ilia’s heart thumped, and he stared at his face. He wasn’t going to be afraid or disgusted. He was different now. The entire universe was different. Like one of those movies where an asteroid hits, and suddenly there are gangs of thugs ruling the post-apocalyptic wastelands. All the old rules had slipped away, just like that.

  He was different now.

  He kicked his pants off and headed down the hall to the bedroom.

  In the darkness, with the curtains drawn, it could have been Mikhail sitting there waiting for him. Same body type, just smaller. Same cast to his features.

  Nick pulled the sheet back.

  “How do you want me?”

  Nick patted his thigh. “Come and sit here.”

  Ilia ignored the ache in his chest. He climbed onto the bed and crawled toward Nick. Rubbed up against him like a cat, then straddled his thighs. Leaned forward and ran his fingers through the dark hair on his chest. He let his eyes drift close.

  It had been so long since—

  No.

  Ilia opened his eyes again.

  He was a new person now, carving a place in a new universe. It was Nick he wanted. Nick was his sun.

  Wanting Nick was better than fearing him.

  He tilted his hips and arched his back, bringing his cock into contact with Nick’s. He lifted his hand to his face and held Nick’s gaze while he licked his palm over and over again. Then, when his hand was slippery with spit, he curled it around Nick’s cock.

  Nick hissed, his eyes narrowing.

  “Mmmm.” Ilia rocked lightly back and forth, widening his grasp to catch his own cock and press it against Nick’s. “Your hand, Nick. Give me your hand.”