Page 39 of Love of the Egoist
He didn’t care about it, but the cargo he’d sent to the Al-Amin, containing a hundred boxes of ammo for HK416, had been stolen this morning on its way to Kunduz. This damn conflict fucked with his business. If the war between the ILO and the Al-Amin didn’t cease, he would have troubles smuggling heroin out of Afghanistan. Hiring an army every time he needed to escort a cargo would null and void the twenty-percent deal he had. He needed to secure his channel without significant investments.
He rubbed his brow. His head pounded with dull pain from sleep deprivation. Exhaustion and sinking warmth, coming from the fireplace, took over.
He needed rest, but without quenching his irritation any attempt to sleep would be a tossing torture in his own bed. Also, he hadn’t seen Kuon in a while. He’d stayed away for long enough to make sure he wouldn’t kill him in a blind rage on the fucking spot but deliver a fair punishment instead.
He got up, opened the door and said, “Greg, bring Kuon here.”
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IT’D BEEN FIVE DAYSsince his escape attempt. Most of Kuon’s cuts had more or less healed, but his turmoil sharpened with each and every minute. Sitting on the mattress, he waited for dinner.
The sky behind the barred window turned purple, and flocks of black crows flew toward the forest.
The door opened, and Kuon faced the noise.
Greg entered the room. His brows knitted, lips pressed in a thin line. Giving Kuon a weird look he said, “Boss wants to see you.”
Here it is…Kuon thought, offering his hands for cuffing, waiting for the steel to close around his wrists.
The script repeated itself. He took a shower; his eyes glued to the small irritating rectal syringe, persistently lying on a shelf. His soapy hands did a mechanical job, washing his body, while the upcoming meeting occupied his brain.
Has Yugo forgiven me? If he wanted to kill me, why am I showering? Why did he bother to heal me? What does he want now? Does he want to sell me? Does he want to fuck me?
Kuon dropped his gaze. A small tornado of irritation awoke in his chest and started spinning, stirring his emotions baring his nerve endings.
Forcing his fear and his thoughts aside, he turned around and, not bothering to dry himself, put the offered jeans on. Covering his drenched shoulders with a bathrobe he followed Greg to Yugo’s bedroom. Water dripped down his fingers, running down from his soaked bandages.
He didn’t care, neither did Greg.
Greg opened the door and Kuon stepped inside, looking around. Alarm sped up his blood flow; his ribcage shrunk, suddenly too small for his lungs and his heart.
Instead of the electric multi-watt bright light, the room was drowned in the soft lighting of night lamps. For the first time in his captivity, the fireplace was lit and well fed with sweet-smelling wood and yellow, crackling fire. The wolf pelt, spreading its hollow legs apart, stared at the fire with sparkly glass eyes. The smell of wood and fire overpowered the smell of vanilla tobacco inherent in Yugo’s bedroom.
The table was gone but, regretfully, Yugo wasn’t. He sat in his favorite chair, smoking. Black hair came down over his opaque, emotionless face. His thin, neurotic fingers rolled a cigarette, thick smoke emitting from the tip.
Kuon’s gaze dropped down, fixing on Yugo’s chest hugged by a Chinese style, snowy-white silk shirt.
Clenching his teeth, Kuon pulled his shoulders back and looked up for a second, linking his gaze with the soulless eyes of his captor. Even if it was the last day of his life, he intended to spend it with dignity.
His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
Kuon shut his eyes, trying to suppress mixed emotions. Leaning against the wall, covered with silk, goldish wallpaper, he waited. He didn’t intend to initiate conversation. He had nothing to say. He wasn'tgoing to apologize, wasn’t going to beg for mercy, hence he had no reason to waste oxygen.
The pause stretched, but it seemed it only disturbed him. Yugo’s metallic eyes slightly glinted in the gloom, informing Kuon he watched him.
Yugo crushed the cigarette in one casual move. Red sparks scattered over the ashtray’s base. He pushed to his feet with cat-like grace and approached Kuon. The heavy, spicy scent of Yugo’s cologne hit Kuon’s face, making him hold his breath. Yugo raised his hand and plucked the sleeve of the bathrobe. Leaving Kuon’s shoulders unprotected from the heated air in the room, it slipped on the floor.
“On your stomach!” he ordered, pointing to the bed; his voice ringing with metal.
“What?” Kuon looked at the bed and back at the man. His chest tightened as he drew back.
Pure, raw anger distorted Yugo’s features. He grabbed Kuon’s elbow and shoved him on the bed as if he was an old boring toy.
“On. Your. Stomach!” he growled, repeating his order. Yugo’s knees sagged into the mattress as his palm slapped Kuon’s back, pressing him deeper into the sheets. His hand caught the chain between the cuffs and forced Kuon’s bandaged hands up, securing them with a carabiner within seconds. Dripping water disappeared into the white silk of Yugo’s bed sheets.
Ruthless hands moved lower, snaking under Kuon’s stomach and undid his fly. Yugo was rough, his movements jerky, careless. A cold wave of fear washed over Kuon. He had seen Yugo like this only once, and he still remembered that tearing pain shredding his body apart.
Hooking his fingers in the waist of Kuon’s jeans, Yugo tore them down in one go, then shuffled to Kuon’s legs and swaddled each of his ankles in cool leather. Kuon felt his legs being forced apart and heard a metallic click. He looked over his shoulder; blood drained from his skin. Yugo’s face was deadpan when he cuffed his legs to the bed pillars, securing each lock with small carabiners.
