2

Chemical castration? A wave of terror rolled through Ilya and he shook uncontrollably. His terrified balls were fighting to crawl into his body. That isn't going to work, guys. Words were one thing, but he couldn't fight drugs.

Bryant moved to lean on the wall next to him. "You want to belong and feel normal."

His voice had changed now. No longer harsh but soft and kind. "Everyone in the world wants to feel that they belong.

Human nature. It's not even your fault…this condition. It's a developmental disorder. An addiction. You can work with me to break that addiction, free yourself of its shackles. You want to be well, don't you?"

Try again.

Give him a small win.

Ilya nodded.

One of Bryant's methods of breaking his so-called addiction was to give him nausea-inducing drugs before making him watch gay porn, ensuring that Ilya would throw up as he watched men having sex, sucking each other off, doing stuff he wanted to do.

It was supposed to flip a switch in his head, so that he'd associate gay sex with feeling violently ill.

The switch stayed on, but that particular treatment had continued day after day until he'd passed out. A doctor had been called, declared him dehydrated and he'd been put on a drip.

His father happened to be in residence at the time and he'd been annoyed with Bryant for the first time. "Cure him not kill him,"

he'd snapped.

"It's not Bryant's fault,"

Svetlana had said. "Ilya is impossible. He ruins everything he touches."

Ilya hoped his father would stick up for him, but he didn't.

He chose Svetlana's side.

Bryant had charmed her, twisted and manipulated her, though that wouldn't have been hard.

She and Ilya had only ever tolerated each other. It felt now to Ilya as though she was getting her own back for all the times he'd defied her as a child. He'd been a little shit but even so…

"You're broken, Ilya. You need to heal. You'll feel a different man then."

If you shut the fuck up, I'd feel a lot better. But he nodded.

Bryant was probably using Wikipedia to guide his so-called conversion therapy techniques. He wondered what there was left to try, though he'd heard rumours in St Petersburg of trans guys being made to castrate pigs.

Ilya had been subjected to electric shocks, ice baths, burning, beating, water-boarding, being kept alone in darkness in the box, along with being forced into boring and pointless physical labour.

He'd moved piles of sand and gravel day after day. Something that could have been done by a machine. Everything had the purpose of wearing him down physically and mentally.

Bryant was unpredictable and dangerous. But Ilya was supposed to say you're right. I'm not gay.

Hurray! How could they think that would happen? He didn't understand how neither his father nor Bryant could see that if pushed far enough, he'd do and say anything to make it all stop. Whatever lie they wanted, he'd give them. Though he was already doing that and he wasn't believed.

He didn't know what else he could do. His only hope was to escape while the wedding was in progress.

"Don't you want to be happy? Of course you do. You can change. You can be happy."

Yes, if you fucked off. Though even that wasn't true. He could only be happy if he was free of his father too. He was the one who'd employed Bryant, after all. Him and the bitch.

"This delusion about your sexuality stems from your parents. Your mother dying when you were young was a painful trauma for a child to endure."

"Don't talk about my mother."

Ilya regretted the words as soon as he'd uttered them. Anything he said was turned against him. He suspected his mother was the only person who'd ever loved him.

"You've never come to terms with her loss."

Bryant squeezed his shoulder and Ilya fought not to shrug him off. "She adored you. She spoilt you. She made you what you are. No woman could stand up to her perfection so you decided to turn to men for love."

Are you crazy? Ilya had been a little boy when she died. He barely remembered her. Yes, he did have her on a pedestal but that wasn't the reason he was gay.

"You had a poor relationship with your father as you grew up. You still have, but that can change."

"Who says I want it to?"

Oh shit. He'd not meant to say that out loud.

The jab in his ribs doubled him over. Fuck it, that hurt.

Bryant yanked him upright by his hair. "You're disgusting, you know that?"

He snarled the words into Ilya's face. "An ungrateful, selfish, arrogant, ugly, stinking little prick. Be a fucking man. You can have it all, a life of luxury, you don't even need to fucking work, and all you want to do is shit on it."

You're the disgusting one.

I know you get off on this, you sick fuck! He very nearly made a grab for Bryant's crotch to prove his point.

He'd sometimes seen a bulge in the bastard's trousers when he'd been hitting him, but there was an opportunity coming on Saturday and it was a chance he couldn't afford to let slip away. Play the game. Win it.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying."

Though not to do what Bryant wanted. He wasn't beaten yet. Forget the yet. Ilya wouldn't let himself be beaten. He dropped his shoulders and made himself look as pathetic as he could.

"My father hates me,"

Ilya whispered. And I hate him for doing this.

"No, he doesn't. Why would he go to all this trouble to help you if he hated you?"

Because he had an ego the size of Russia? Because a scrawny, disrespectful, weirdly-dressed twink of a gay son was not what his father wanted? What he wanted was for Ilya to work in the family business.

What he wanted was Ilya in a respectable marriage—to a woman, then produce grandsons.

"I disappoint him,"

Ilya mumbled. That was true.

"Well, you know a way to solve that."

He warned himself not to look too compliant. But no more backchat. No defiance.

"You could offer to do something to help with your sister's wedding."

"Okay. I'd like to help."

For a long moment, Bryant said nothing. Ilya swallowed hard. Should he have said he didn't want to help?

"Your father wants lights wrapping around the trees on the drive. You can join the two men working on that, but if I hear one word about you that I find concerning, you'll spend the rest of the week in the box. Your father is in agreement. Understand?"

"Yes."

Ilya doubted his father was in agreement. He wasn't that much of a tyrant.

"Go and get changed. If you're not on the drive in ten minutes, I'll be looking for you."

Ilya left the house without having had the chance to get something to eat.

He drank the water in the shower as he washed in cold water.

No time to get coffee, he dragged his clothes on over cold, damp skin and ran downstairs.

One step outside and he shuddered. It was March but it felt cold enough to snow and his coat was too thin. His lovely warm coat had been left in St Petersburg.

As he hurried down the drive towards the gates—which were open, and tempting—he gave a little sigh.

If not for the tracker implanted in his arm, he might have kept going to the road, then run until he found someone to give him a lift.

Maybe thrown himself in front of a car if he was brave enough.

Though he wasn't sure how much strength he had to run, plus he had nowhere to go and when he did leave, the technology in his arm had to stay behind.

Plus, if he was to have any chance of making it, there were some things he had to take with him.

When he reached the tree where the men were working, he called, "Morning! What can I do to help?"

Ilya wasn't going to look directly at them, let alone talk to them more than he needed to. Best behaviour was required. Any hint of flirting and he was doomed.

"See what we've done to the first tree?"

the older one said. "Just do the same. Work as fast as you can." He spoke into his phone. "He's just arrived."

Where did they think he was going to go? Ilya guessed Bryant just wanted him to know that no one was on his side, whether they wanted to be or not.

He'd never felt so lonely in his life.

He wondered what his friends in St Petersburg had been told about his sudden disappearance, if they'd been told anything.

They knew he'd planned to return to the UK for his sister's wedding, but he'd vanished a month before he was supposed to. They must have wondered why.

Ilya looked up at the tree.

He had no fear of heights.

He climbed to the top of the ladder and carefully wrapped lights around the branches.

In a few days, Lara was getting married to a distant member of the British royal family, much to his stepmother and father's joy, and hopefully Lara's too.

Some cousin of a cousin of a cousin or something, but no matter how distant the relationship, his father hadn't been able to contain his delight.

His daughter had exceeded his expectations, unlike his son.

No expense had been spared.

The best champagne and caviar.

The best wine. A dress from Paris costing tens of thousands. The best of everything. Ilya would have liked to design and make the rings, but he hadn't been asked. He was disappointed but not surprised. He knew Lara wouldn't go against their father.

Sandridge Hall would be swarming with guests and catering staff on Saturday, and Emilia was the way they hoped to control Ilya. She was a friend of Lara's with titled parents. Ilya had met her a couple of times. She was all right but not a guy so…of no interest to him.

He had a plan. He'd start off holding her hand, but his intention was to provoke his father into sending him to his room by late afternoon.

It was a risk because if he was put in the box, he'd have no chance of escape. There was also the not so minor issue of having to pluck up enough courage to cut open his arm to take out the tracker. If he didn't, he'd be caught. There was no point running if he chickened out of that.

The other two chatted as they worked, but they didn't talk to Ilya and he stayed silent. It was hard to be quiet because he always had something to say. He was known for being sociable and chatty.

He had a good sense of humour and was popular, but all that had gone. Temporarily, he hoped. But it was better that he wasn't talking.

He couldn't take the risk of letting something slip that would lead to him being locked up. He'd trusted people before and it had been a mistake. No one who worked for his father could be relied on.

The only person who could change the situation was him. He'd do anything he could in order to live the life he wanted because the alternative was unacceptable. How could he pretend to be straight and get married to a woman? It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

Ilya worked through lunch because the other two did. Maybe they'd already eaten. Only when it was getting dark, and the older one called time, did he stop. His fingers were sore and cold. If he did this again tomorrow, he'd ask for gloves.

On his way back to his room, Bryant stepped in front of him, making Ilya jump. The guy always seemed to appear out of nowhere. Ilya needed to be constantly vigilant.

"Your parents wish you to eat with them tonight."

Ilya said nothing.

Bryant moved right into his space and backed Ilya to the wall, pressing the length of his body to Ilya's. Did he think that because Ilya was gay, he'd get a hard-on? The guy repulsed him.

"Not speaking isn't acceptable. If you wish to be treated normally, then behave normally. You know the allowable topics of conversation."

Ilya opened his mouth to ask how he was supposed to join in a conversation about Chelsea Football Club—his father's obsession, apart from his business interests—when he knew nothing about them, or some TV show he'd never seen—his stepmother's obsession—or the latest TikTok sensation—Lara's obsession, apart from the wedding—but instead closed his mouth again.

"Even so, you worked hard today. You didn't do anything stupid, so you can have a bath."

Ilya's heart leapt. "A hot bath?"

"Yes. Good behaviour is rewarded."

"Thank you."

"Dress smartly tonight."

Since none of his fun clothes had come to England with him, he had little choice over what he wore. Ilya hurried to his room. He wished he could lock the door, but he didn't have a key. He shed his clothes as he headed for the bathroom. He was tired and cold. There were goose bumps on his goose bumps.

He started the water running and while he waited, he shaved. As he looked at his face in the mirror, something glinted at the top of one of the diagonal struts that supported the glass walls of the shower. What the hell? His heart thumped. He didn't want to stare, but was that a fucking camera? Got a good view of my backside, you twisted bastard? Another glance in the mirror convinced him he was right. He was sure that hadn't been there before.

What he intended to do now was a bad idea but he was so irritated, he didn't care. In any case, if he didn't keep shaving now his skin was used to it, he'd be back to square one and when the hairs regrew it would be horribly itchy. Not much of an excuse, but too bad. Enjoy the show, Bryant!

Ilya turned away from the camera and propped one leg up on the side of the bath. He pulled his arse cheeks apart and lathered up with soap before holding the skin taut and dragging the razor slowly and carefully inside the crease. When the razor finally came back with no hairs he stopped. Maybe straight guys manscaped. He didn't know.

He checked the bath wasn't too hot, washed his razor and then slid into the water. He couldn't stop the long groan escaping. There probably wasn't a microphone. It wasn't as if there was anyone to talk to. No one had ever told him he talked in his sleep. Ilya bent his knees and let himself slide down until his head was under the water.

Fuck my life!

But although it was currently shit, there was always hope things would get brighter. Saturday was the brightness waiting for him. I'm going to escape. I'll run and I'll make it.

Ilya only lifted his head when he was desperate to breathe.

Just as well he'd spotted that camera because he might have risked a wank in a warm bath—which was forbidden. And not just in the bath. No touching himself in any sexual way. At all. Not that it had stopped him. He was an expert at being quiet and careful in bed. But he was having to negotiate a tricky path. He needed to be bad on Saturday, but not too bad. He'd just breathe wrong. That should do it. The thought almost made him smile. If he got his timing right, he'd be miles away before he was missed, then he could wank all day long if he wanted to.

Shit! He dragged his hand off his cock. He'd been stroking himself without realising. It wasn't fair! Straight guys probably wanked in the bath. It wasn't a gay thing to do. Ilya washed his hair and carefully cleaned the whole of his body, adding more hot water. Who knew when he'd get this luxury again?

He behaved himself at dinner. Bryant sat opposite. Ilya didn't roll his eyes, didn't make any sarcastic comments, didn't do much of anything, including eat. His hunger of that morning had disappeared. He knew he was too thin, but eating made him feel ill so he limited how much he consumed. A bread roll and soup were about as much as he could manage with any enthusiasm. He pushed the main dish around on his plate so it looked as though he'd eaten something.

The conversation was all about the wedding. Lara and Svetlana were excited to the point of squeaking. His father had married Svetlana four months after the death of Ilya's mother. He'd been three. Lara had been born two months later. Ilya hadn't understood the significance of that at the time. Later, he had. He'd not liked Svetlana because she'd not liked him, though he'd been entranced by baby Lara. His fascination didn't last. Lara had all the attention and Ilya was ignored. Adoration turned to resentment.

But Lara had loved him, always toddling after her older brother, and his resentment faded. Ilya couldn't help but love her back, even after she turned into a spoiled princess who was given everything she asked for. Her lies had got him into trouble more times than he could count but he always forgave her because she worshipped him. He didn't believe she could have any idea of how he was being treated in this house. Nor could he tell her. Not yet. She lived with Giles, her husband to be, but this week she was staying at Sandridge until the wedding.

"And how is Ilya doing?"

His father switched to English to talk to Bryant, his Russian accent still pronounced.

"We're making progress."

Did he really think that? It was an unsettling thought. Svetlana gave him one of her looks, warning him to keep his mouth shut.

"Have you come up with any plans for the future? Set any goals?"

Lara asked.

Ilya's mind went blank for a moment until he remembered Bryant was supposed to be his life coach.

"I'm painfully slow at grasping the basics."

Ilya glanced at her.

"But we'll get there,"

Bryant said.

No, we fucking won't.