Page 21 of Taking Me

I didn’t pay much attention to it before, but I couldn’t help but notice how muscular and inked up he had become during his time in prison and since the last time I had seen him.

His commanding voice echoed through the room.

“Men!, get this area cleaned up. The show is over.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

As we made our way through the crowd, Marklov expressed his gratitude to those who attended, shaking a few hands along the way.

A man walks up. His smile stretches from one ear to the other.

“Ah, Mijo, she’s a natural, and she’s a beauty.” He laughs out.

Throughout it all, his hand remained steady on my body, a constant presence I couldn’t ignore. The atmosphere is charged with excitement and tension, and I couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy about what would come next.

Eighteen

Breaking Point

He guides me into the room, gesturing for me to enter first. I hesitate for a moment, my feet rooted to the spot as uncertainty washes over me. The room feels personal, almost sacred, and I can’t shake the feeling that stepping inside might cross an invisible boundary. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and finally step over the threshold, my eyes scanning the space that undoubtedly belongs to him.

It’s beautiful in here. The lights are dimmed, aiding to the dark aesthetic. If this were under any other circumstances, I would want to stay here forever. The room has a skylight, and when you look up, you are under a blanket of stars. A telescope would trap me here for hours if I had the opportunity to do so.

It is clean, and the scent of cinnamon lingers in the air, weaving through the room like an invisible thread of warmth. I find myself in a trance, transported to a comforting place in the back of my mind, where the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, casting dancing shadows that soothe my soul.

This peaceful escape, however, is abruptly cut short, pulling me back to reality with a jolt as the harsh sound of Marklovs voice interrupts me.

“Strip,” he commands, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. But then, with a shaky hand, I complied.

“Yes…Master,” I said barely above a whisper.

Marklov seems to be aroused due to me killing the woman in front of him. His breathing quickened and a twisted smile played on his lips, making my skin crawl. Part of me hopes there is a good reason behind his reaction, something that could make sense of this twisted situation.

But another part of me does not give a single fuck. The act of taking a life, feeling the power and control in that moment, was strangely empowering. The release was almost euphoric, a dark catharsis that drowned out the horror of the act itself. In that moment, all that mattered was the intense, primal satisfaction of unleashing my pent-up anger.

Standing over the woman with those recognizable features, I pushed them deep down and pictured her as Marklov.Fuckin’ pig. It made it worth it. I just really wish it was him on his knees in front of me, begging for his pathetic life and not someone I was made to kill.

I slowly undress myself, my hands trembling like the last two leaves clinging to a tree in the fall, quivering with every breath of wind. Each movement feels deliberate and heavy as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders. The fabric slips from my fingers, cascading to the floor in a quiet rustle, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The chill of the room seeps into my skin, heightening the sensation of each goosebump that forms. My heart pounds, echoing the rhythm of my unsteady hands as I stood there, stripped bare.

I try to keep my focus on the fact that this is only temporary, and when I heal enough, I can get the fuck out of this place.

I look up to meet his gaze, his eyes locked onto mine with a primal intensity. It’s as if he’s evaluating me, deciding whether I’m worthy of his twisted affection or if he’s going to carry out the sinister threats he made when I was just a child.

His gaze is intense, a predator assessing his prey, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. I knew I had to play my part perfectly to survive this twisted game of his. I just hope I survive the wrath of him.

Marklov strides over to his closet, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He retrieves a black case, its surface gleaming ominously in the dim light.

“Get on the bed,” he commands, his voice deep and authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

I hesitate, feeling a chill run down my spine as I process his words.

“I have blood all over my hand and arm,” I say, my voice trembling with confusion and a hint of concern.

The sight of the crimson stains on my skin only adds to the surreal horror of the moment, my mind struggling to make sense of the situation.

“Did I tell you to speak? And I thought I told you to address me as Master!” he barked, shaking his head in disappointment.

His tone cuts through the air like a knife, making me flinch. I can only hope he doesn’t decide to punish me for my so-called“disobedience.”The mere thought of potential lashings makes my stomach churn.

---