Page 27 of Iblis' Affliction
Talha’s pupils zoomed out. Slowly, as if fighting an invisible force, Talha rolled his head toward him. A look of disbelief crossed his face. No matter what Slater had done before, Talha had never looked at him like this, as if he didn’t recognize the person in front of him.
The air hitched in Slater’s throat. Something bubbled in his chest. Clenching his teeth, trying to control his twitching lips, he demanded, “Look only at Slater…”
Unblinking, the man scanned his face with some kind of awe, and Slater remembered the gentle caresses of his mouth and the sweetness of his tongue. Slater hated kissing. Kisses were for the weak. Kisses were for women. He wasn’t a woman; he wasn’t weak. He didn’t need kisses. Kisses were for lovers. Slater never needed a lover. Love was a weakness. Love was a curse; he knew it for sure. Kisses and tenderness made him feel weak, weird, vulnerable, yet greedy and possessive. They sucked his soul out and feasted on it, leaving him messy, needy, empty. No, Slater needed no lover, yet now he couldn’t help remembering how Talha’s lips tasted.
His tongue burned with a need to feel the sweetness and warmth he’d felt that night. He longed to catch the attentive gaze of amber eyes that observed his every move, to hear the soft chuckle when Master teased him, pleased him. Slater had never felt safe and confident with any of his former masters. Yet, year by year, Talha instilled in his heart the absolute faith that no matter what Slater did, Talha would always forgive him, accept him, and clean his mess. And Slater did his best to test Talha’s limits and try to break this faith, but never before had he succeeded, until now.
His mind roiling with confusion, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the black duct tape, covering Talha’s mouth. He closed his eyes, trying to subdue the jerk of his shoulders and control his heavy, rapid panting. The familiar scent of his master’s skin invaded his being.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like this, absorbing his master’s warmth with every cell of his body, but when he drew back; his eyes were heavy, hot, and swollen.
Propping himself on one hand, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and cleared his throat.
“Are you ready to fuck her mouth?” No reply. Slater moved his hand behind his back, squeezed the grip of the karambit. Bringing the black blade to Talha’s chest, he sliced another line down, close to the first one, watching the man’s expression darken with deep, complex emotion. “That’s two, Master.”
TALHA LAY ON HIS BACK,blinking into the darkness. Every muscle, every bone, every cell in his body throbbed. His insides swelled, his ass hurt, and merely thinking about the rape clenched his fists in an uncontrollable rage. However, every time his memory pictured Slater’s desperate, painful grimace and the watery eyes that searched his soul for answers, Talha’s chest tightened.
Since when did he start having feelings? He even kissed me…Talha remembered the awkward lips that pressed against the duct tape, the chaotic drumming of Slater’s heart coming through his shirt, and then something acrid and hot tickling his skin where Slater rested his face in the crook of his neck.Did he cry, or was it sweat?
His gaze traveled toward the opposite wall, where Camilla’s head lay in the dust.
Did he do this all because he was jealous? But Slater had never wanted anything but sex and pain. When the fuck did this change? Why didn’t he say anything? Fuck, Slater, you are so stupid...
Talha growled, lifted his head, and bumped it against the ground. His mind slowly trailed back in time to the night when Slater had killed for him for the first time.
5 YEARS AGO
SEARING PAINSHOT THROUGHhis head. Emitting from his right temple, then rushed down his stiff neck and settled somewhere between his shoulder blades. Uncomfortable stillness seized his body. He tried to gasp, but something heavy and hot weighed on his stomach, hampering his breathing and extracted a groan from his throat. Rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm, he pried his eyes open.
An electric gaze of transparent blue stabbed him from above, as Slater’s scorching fingers slithered over his chest. Every caress resounded throughout his body with a pulse of pain.
Blood pressure spiked, sending a wave of heat up his throat as the image from the nightmare flared in his consciousness. Just like now, in his dream Slater towered over him; his long fingers extract one organ after another from his gaping stomach, before pinning them to the bloody wall map with throwing knives.
Adrenaline kicked in, activating his self-preservation instincts. Before he understood what was going on, his fist collided with Slater’s face and tossed him aside. With a cat-like grace, as if the punch provided no impact or pain, Slater landed on all fours. Head snapping to the side, he grinned, fisted the crumpled bedsheet with one hand, rubbed his cheek with another. “Master is feisty today...”
He didn’t look hurt or insulted. Observing Talha with a mix of curiosity and attention, he sat back on his heels with his palms resting on the top of his thighs. Like yesterday, he wore only sweatpants, which left the tanned skin of his upper body exposed. Scrutinizing his visitor, Talha noticed that Slater’s skin wasn’t all that perfect. He ignored the distinctive round scars left by bullets that decorated Slater’s shoulders and dotted the left side of his torso. He also discounted the thin knife lines on the outer side of his left forearm, and his right upper belly, as those screamed of battle wounds. His whole attention concentrated on the light, barely visible round scars that specked Slater’s chest right below his protruding collarbones. The same scars dotted his lower belly, disappearing in the depth of his pants. Those weren’t scars earned in fights. Those were cigarette burns, left by torture.
Shaking his head, Talha scowled. His focus slid from the ripper to his own torso. A huge purple hematoma, left by the rain of bullets, spread over his chest and glistened with something transparent and sticky. Pressing his fingers to his skin, he smeared the greasy substance, then brought his fingers to his face. A heady, herbal scent crawled up his nose, making him flinch back.
“What d-de fuck is this?” Talha asked, stuttering.
“Ointment, Master.” Picking up a small white plastic jar that lay on the linens, Slater screwed the lid back on. “Master is careless. Master needs protection. Slater will protect…”
Perplexed, Talha lost track of his thoughts, burning with a desire to smash Slater’s face against the floor, so the reaper would forever forget the way to his bedroom, but a tiny doubt, fizzing at the back of his consciousness, stopped him.He treated my bruises… Why?
‘Master needs protection.’he replayed Slater’s words in his mind, and wondered if this was how Slater had been with all his masters?
Is he just an assassin, or does having Iblis mean no privacy and a constant annoying shadow? Is Slater the reason Behçet survived all this time? Because Slater protected him?With those questions, another one surfaced in his mind.Did Slater come to Behçet’s bed at night, like this?
He cringed, shook his head, and kicked the blanket off.
“Why do I even think about it?” Talha muttered under his breath, then slapped barefoot toward the bathroom, needing a cold shower to clear his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “You’d better be gone before I’m out of the shower. And never enter my room again, or we will have problems. Is that clear?”
Slater didn’t reply, but his smile grew wider.
TALHA’S HEAD HURT.Forgetting about his stitches, he stepped into the shower cubicle, and the first threads of cold water hit the top of his head. The myriads small needles, piercing his mind, sedated his confused thoughts.
What a mess…he thought, remembering the shoot-out in the mosque, then Slater’s weird behavior and creepy demand to stay in his room.What did I get myself into?
