6. Chapter Six

It had been a day of blood and pain. Not Bautista's blood or pain—the blood he'd washed off his hands had belonged to a man who would never cross him again. Bautista rubbed a fleck of blood that had stained his cuff and grimaced. Well, such days were the natural consequence of the life he lived. There was no avoiding them.

There was a satisfaction in punishing a traitor. Men who betrayed Bautista needed to be taught the error of their ways, after all. Or removed entirely from the equation.

Men like Hamilton West.

Bautista lounged in his leather armchair, sipping whiskey from a crystal tumbler, his black eyes reflecting the faint flicker of candlelight. Restlessness gnawed at him, an itch he couldn't quite scratch.

Hamilton West needed to be taught a lesson. But he was untouchable. Rylan, on the other hand…

On impulse, he strode to the door and flung it open.

"Carlos," he barked suddenly, the name echoing off the walls. "Bring our guest to my study."

Carlos gave him a hard look but inclined his head. "As you wish, jefe." He disappeared up the stairs.

Bautista dropped back into his chair. The leather of the seat creaked beneath him, and his fingers tightened around his whisky tumbler. Tight anticipation twisted in his gut, his body humming with the thrill of how much power he held over the pathetic West boy.

Finally, the door opened again. Rylan stepped hesitantly into the room, his body language tentative and fearful. The sight of him stirred something primal within Bautista, a wicked smirk playing at his lips.

He wanted to play with Rylan, make him afraid. Really get into his head and mess him up.

"Close the door," he said. Rylan did, looking anxious and delicate.

It had gone beyond revenge now. Oh, Bautista was still after his money. Rylan's father had better come through or something bad was going to happen. But now, it was simply that Bautista cared less about the money and more about the fear in Rylan's eyes when he looked up. Those blue eyes, such an odd almost purplish shade. Bautista had never seen eyes like that, and to see them now wide in fear was a rush.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "are you afraid of me, Rylan?"

Rylan swallowed hard, his eyes darting away for a moment before returning to meet Bautista's gaze. "Yes," he whispered.

"Good," Bautista said, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "You should be."

He stood up to pour himself another whisky, looking Rylan over intently.

The boy was so weak. Such a frail and useless creature. So flimsy. So breakable. It bothered him that Rylan was still wearing the same clothes he'd been delivered in. That was something he would have to remedy. It was not a kindness. Simply, Bautista liked clean, beautiful things.

Would you not enjoy him in rags?The thought had its appeal. Ragged, ruined Rylan West. It sparked something hungry in Bautista's gut. He put the thought aside for now, focusing on the moment and the frightened young man in front of him.

"You must be wondering why I summoned you here so late at night."

Rylan's breath hitched in his throat, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape. His voice shook when he spoke, betraying his vulnerability. "I...I don't know what you want from me, Sir."

"No?" Bautista stalked closer, circling his prey like a predator. "What could I want with someone like you?"

"Someone like me?" Rylan asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Did you think you could hide it? It's obvious what you are," Bautista said, reaching out to trace a finger along Rylan's jaw. "The perverted things you want."

Rylan's eyes widened, but he couldn't seem to suppress the shudder that overtook him or the way his body leaned ever so slightly forward. He was a moth to a flame, drawn in by the very danger he knew he should avoid. Or so Bautista suspected.

"Please," Rylan whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "All I want is to go home."

A wicked smile still playing on his lips, Bautista took a step back to drink in the sight of his captive. He could see the young man's chest rising and falling rapidly, betraying the fear that coursed through him. It pleased Bautista to have this effect on him, to know that he held total power over this cowering boy, and that the boy knew it.

"Rylan," Bautista drawled, savoring the way the name rolled off his tongue. "You're not going home." Rylan's head snapped up, his eyes going wide with terror, and Bautista chuckled. "Not until your father pays for you. And until then, you're mine. I can do anything I want to you."

He moved closer, until he could feel the heat radiating from the younger man's body. Rylan was holding very still, like he might shatter if he moved.

"I know where you were when my men found you. A gay club. Were you looking for someone to make you kneel for them?"

Rylan's breath came fast and shallow, but he didn't answer. He seemed to be trying not to break down.

Bautista leaned in close, his breath hot against Rylan's ear. "Tell me, do you go weak at the knees in the presence of a real man?"

"W-what?" Rylan stammered, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

"Come now, don't play coy with me," Bautista growled, running a rough hand down Rylan's side, gripping his hip tightly. "I'm sure a pretty thing like you has fantasized about being at the mercy of a man like me."

Rylan's face flushed crimson, and Bautista reveled in the humiliation that colored his cheeks. "No, I-I haven't," Rylan protested weakly.

"Really?" Bautista mused. "Not even once?"

"Never," Rylan insisted, but his gaze flickered uncertainly under Bautista's scrutiny.

Bautista chuckled wryly. "Unfortunate for you. If you had, you might enjoy this."

Rylan's eyes cut up to Bautista's, his pupils huge and dark. "What? But—"

"Perhaps you're thinking I intend to use you like a whore," Bautista said, his voice low and dangerous. "You'd like that, ay?" He leaned in closer, allowing his hot breath to fan over Rylan's neck, and saw him visibly flinch. Bautista turned his voice hard and cold. "Don't fucking think about it. I wouldn't contaminate myself." He leaned back, smiling thinly. "Anyway, I have plenty of whores." He caught Rylan's jaw and forced his head back, looking into Rylan's pale, lavender eyes. So unusual. So lovely. "I'm going to make you my slave."

"Please, don't," Rylan stammered. The fear in his eyes was palpable, and his breathing grew more erratic with each passing moment.

"Aw, poor little thing," Bautista cooed mockingly, gripping Rylan tighter. "You're so scared, aren't you? You think I'm going to hurt you?"

"I don't know…I don't know what you want from me," Rylan whispered. He bit his lip, leaving it red and full.

"Such a pretty mouth on you," Bautista sneered. "But it's time for you to learn your place."

In one smooth action, Bautista forced Rylan facedown onto the lush carpet. Rylan yelped, catching himself on one hand and pushing himself up to his knees, but Bautista's voice stopped him dead.

"Stay like that," Bautista commanded, injecting his voice with pure dominance. "Don't move, don't speak. Just take whatever I give you."

Rylan trembled on the carpet, but he kept his head down. Bautista stood over him, watching the boy struggle to hold back tears and maintain some semblance of dignity on his hands and knees. A rush of almost sexual pleasure coursed through Bautista's body. There was something about seeing Rylan so vulnerable and submissive that awakened a primal hunger within him.

"Look at you," Bautista growled, his vision narrowing to the fragile young man at his feet. "So fucking pathetic and desperate. You're nothing but a toy for me to play with, an object for my amusement. Because, Rylan," he said with relish. "It doesn't actually matter to me if you do enjoy this or want this. What you want is irrelevant." Bautista murmured, his nerves lit up by the heady trip of power. "From the moment you walked into my house, you have belonged to me."

He reveled in the power he held over Rylan, intoxicated by the heady mix of fear and desire emanating from the young man beneath him.

"Stay down there," he commanded, making his voice harsh and unforgiving.

He watched Rylan's slender body quake beneath him as he planted one Italian leather shoe on the young man's shoulder blades and pushed down, forcing his face deeper into the plush carpet.

"Let me show you what it really means to be owned," he growled, his eyes never leaving Rylan's body as he reached for the nearby glass of whiskey.

Rylan's chest heaved with every panicked breath. "Please," he begged, his voice barely audible through the thick carpet fibers. "I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Bautista repeated, savoring the word as he brought the glass of whiskey to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip. The burn of the alcohol only fueled his desire for…he wasn't sure what. "Good," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I expect nothing less from my property."

Bautista's mouth curled with a predatory satisfaction as he watched Rylan submit, the boy's cheeks flushed with humiliation and something else—arousal. Bautista felt a rush of pleasure at the sight. The power dynamics between them were intoxicating, thrilling him in ways he'd never felt before.

He felt a sudden clarity cut through the fog of pleasure that had filled his mind moments before, and he stopped suddenly in realization. What was he doing? His gut twisted with confusion and something he had not felt in a long time—a stab of fear. No matter how he reveled in what he was doing to Rylan, something in him was afraid of what it meant to enjoy this so much.

He tossed back his whisky. "Get up," he said abruptly, removing his foot from Rylan's back. "Get out. I'm done with you."

Shakily, Rylan got to his feet. He looked relieved, confused, and hurt. "Is that all you wanted from me?" he spat out, his voice quivering but defiant. "To humiliate me?"

"Remember your place, Rylan," Bautista warned, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. "You're alive because I haven't decided to end you yet."

Rylan flinched, but a flicker of resentment flared in his eyes. Bautista saw that spark and smirked, knowing how easily he could crush it. And he would, soon enough.

As the door closed behind Rylan, Bautista felt flushed with satisfaction. He was certain that Rylan desired him, even as the boy hated himself for it. The thought intrigued Bautista more than he cared to admit. The idea of toying with someone who lusted after and hated him at the same time, to tease them with the idea that he might eventually give them what they wanted…it appealed to him.

He would never, of course. Rylan did not deserve what he wanted, and Bautista would not degrade himself to the level of fucking a man, no matter how pretty his mouth.

But the control. To have Rylan so perfectly helpless in his hand. It was intoxicating.

And he knew Rylan wanted him. That much was obvious. The boy had been shaking with arousal. Bautista imagined him staggering back to his room, collapsing on the floor, curling around himself in horny misery.

Well, he didn't have to imagine it. He turned to his computer and opened the surveillance software.

Before Rylan ever came to Casa del Rey, his room had been fitted with hidden security cameras. It was standard—all the guest rooms had them. But Bautista had never taken advantage of them before with such relish.

The cameras showed Rylan's room from several angles, the details crisp and clear. Bautista watched as Rylan strode into the room and stopped, his fists clenched at his sides, the anger and humiliation radiating off of him in waves.

"Pathetic," Bautista whispered, though the word held no real venom.

For a long moment, his captive simply stood there, staring at nothing. Then, to Bautista's surprise, Rylan began to undress. Bautista was unable to look away from the sight of Rylan's fingers trailing down his pale, lean chest. He watched Rylan shimmy out of his pants and was surprised at the length of Rylan's pale cock. It was hard already, long and slender, like his long, slender limbs. He was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, casting diffuse, gentle shadows over his vulnerable, naked body.

Now, Rylan lay down on the bed, his eyes half-lidded. His mouth opened, but the security video had no sound. Bautista had to imagine what sounds Rylan made as he wrapped a hand around himself. Soft. Wet. Humiliated. Yes, that was how he looked—he must sound the same.

Rylan's expression was anguished, as if doing this only humiliated him further. "Pathetic," Bautista whispered to himself again, but he couldn't deny the way his own cock stirred in his pants as he watched Rylan's fingers wrap around his length, stroking it with an almost desperate need for release.

"So you do like it," Bautista muttered, his eyes glued to the screen as he watched the young man's every move. "I know your secret, little prince. You want me to humiliate you."

His hand slipped down to adjust himself, his trousers tightening as he watched Rylan pleasure himself.

Rylan's face contorted like he was in pain, his free hand gripping the bedsheets tightly as he pumped his cock harder, faster. Bautista could only imagine the soft gasps and moans escaping Rylan's lips but felt each one sending a jolt of electric desire through his veins.

"Hijueputa," Bautista groaned. This should be disgusting, shouldn't it? And it was, it disgusted him fully. But there was something intoxicating about watching his enemy's son so humiliated, so desperate.

"Is this what you want, maricón?" Bautista growled under his breath, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of the young man hunched on the bed. "Do you want me to see you like this?"

It came over him in a hot wave, the desire to push Rylan to this point. To see Rylan humiliated, and yet still aroused, still yearning for something he couldn't have. What could he make the boy do? To what depths of depravity would Rylan sink for the promise of something that Bautista would never give him?

The thought made his balls tighten. It was the power, of course, the degradation. It had nothing to do with Rylan.

Because of course what he saw now sickened him. Any real man would be sickened by it. Bautista should turn off the feed before he saw something even more disgusting.

But then Rylan's body tensed, his hand gripping his cock tightly as he arched into it. His mouth was open, and his other hand shot up to stifle the noises Bautista could not hear. The sight of Rylan so desperate to hide his shame sent a pulse right to Bautista's cock.

Bautista breathed out hard, his hand instinctively moving to caress the bulge in his pants. But he stopped himself, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. It was just a physical reaction. It meant nothing.

Still, he watched as Rylan shuddered violently, curling in on himself. He saw Rylan's face contort with ecstasy and shame. And he watched as Rylan spilled over his belly, his cock jerking and spitting, and Bautista could almost feel the rain of hot droplets as they hit Rylan's fevered skin.

As quickly as the pleasure had taken him, Rylan seemed flooded by remorse. He curled around his pillow, burying his face in it. Bautista could imagine his sobs as his shoulders quaked with each hitched breath.

Something burst in Bautista's chest, a strange, hot emotion he couldn't name. Was it pleasure? It stung. It felt like a vindication, or condemnation. He didn't know it. Unable to tear his gaze from the screen, Rylan's raw emotion called to him—he longed to possess and control the young man in a way that he couldn't quite explain.

"Mierda," he muttered, shoving away the strange feeling. This was nothing more than a desire to own something beautiful and break it down into something he could use. A tool. A toy. An object on which to work out his frustrations.

But as Bautista watched the screen and the sobbing young man on the bed, he couldn't shake the desire to reach out and touch Rylan's tear-streaked cheek, to taste the salt of those tears on his tongue.