22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mason

I'm already up and dressed when Iris picks up our discarded knives from the night before to start meticulously cleaning them. The soft morning light filters through the windows, casting a glow across the room but it’s not chasing away the chill in the air. I adjust my tie, smoothing down the rich silk before turning my attention to our guest.

Elijah lies on the marble floor, exactly where we left him last night. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady. In the gentle morning light, he looks almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the evidence of our activities painted across his body. Dried blood from our knife play forms intricate patterns on his golden skin, interspersed with the flaking remnants of our combined releases on his face and chest.

For a moment, I'm struck by how beautiful he looks like this. Vulnerable, marked, claimed. It's almost a shame to disturb him. Almost.

I crouch down beside him, taking in the details. The long lashes resting against his cheeks, the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep. He appears more relaxed than he has been since we first brought him home from the gala, his usual tension melted away in unconsciousness.

Part of me is tempted to let him sleep, to preserve this moment of tranquility. But practicality wins out. I need to get him cleaned up and secured on the cross again before I leave to deal with the injunction he so kindly left for me.

"Time to wake up, pretty boy," I murmur, running a finger along his jaw.

Elijah's eyes flutter open, confusion clouding those icy blue depths for a moment before recognition sets in. I watch as awareness crashes over him, his body tensing as he remembers where he is.

"Good morning," I say, my voice deceptively cheerful. "Did you sleep well?"

Elijah's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Like a baby," he croaks, his voice rough from sleep. "Nothing quite like a marble floor to lull you into sweet dreams."

I can't help but chuckle at his sarcasm. That sharp tongue of his still refuses to be silenced.

"Glad to hear it," I reply, standing up. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, shall we? Can't have you going crusty on us."

I motion to Iris, who sets aside the now-gleaming knives in the open box on the side table and moves to help me. Together, we release Elijah from his restraints. His muscles are stiff from sleeping on the hard floor all night, and he winces as we help him to his feet.

"Easy now," I murmur, supporting him as he sways slightly. "Take it slow."

We guide Elijah to the en-suite bathroom, the marble floor cool beneath our feet.

"I'll go fetch some breakfast for our guest," Iris says, her lips curving into a smile. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

As she sashays out of the bathroom, I turn my attention back to Elijah. His muscles have loosened up during the short walk, the stiffness from sleeping on the hard floor gradually fading away. He holds still as I carefully unwrap the bandages from his wrists and ankles.

The marks from the restraints have faded to a dull red, no longer angry and inflamed. I run my thumb over the tender flesh, feeling Elijah's pulse quicken beneath my touch.

Without a word, Elijah steps into the shower, once again not bothering to ask for permission. The hot water cascades over him, turning his golden skin slick and glistening. He tilts his head back, letting the spray wash away the dried blood and cum from the night before.

I lean against the sink, arms crossed, watching him. "You know," I drawl, "most people would ask before using someone else's shower and this is the second time you haven’t."

Elijah snorts, running his hands through his hair to work out the tangles. "Most people aren't being held captive by psychopathic power couples," he retorts. "I figure social niceties went out the window somewhere around the time you tied me to your cross."

I can't help but chuckle at his sass. "Fair point," I concede. "Though I have to say, your manners leave something to be desired."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Elijah says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Would you prefer I curtsey and ask 'Please sir, may I use your shower to wash off the blood and cum you so graciously covered me in?'"

A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. "Now that would be a sight," I muse, picturing the scene. "Though I think I prefer you just as you are, pretty boy. Sharp tongue and all."

Elijah pauses in his washing, turning to face me fully. Water streams down his body, highlighting every curve and plane of his muscled form. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks, his tone a blend of accusation and grudging curiosity. "The back-and-forth, the banter."

I consider denying it, but decide honesty might be more interesting in this case. "I am," I admit, meeting his gaze steadily. "You're clever, quick-witted. It's... refreshing."

Something flickers in Elijah's eyes at my admission, but it's gone before I can decipher it.

Elijah turns back to the spray, resuming his washing. As he does, a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. "Careful there, counselor," he says, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something deeper. "Keep talking like that and I might start to think you're getting attached."

His words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit. I school my features into a neutral expression, but I can feel a frown tugging at my brows. The truth is, Elijah isn't wrong. There's something different about him, something that sets him apart from our previous "guests."

It's not just his quick wit or his refusal to cower at our games. It's the way he challenges us, matches us barb for barb. The way he seems to understand us on some fundamental level, even as he fights against us. It's intoxicating in a way I hadn't anticipated.

I don't respond to his jab, my silence speaking volumes. Elijah's smirk widens slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. He's scored a point and he knows it. He finishes rinsing off, then turns off the water and steps out of the shower. I hand him a plush towel, watching as he dries himself off with efficient movements.

When he's done, I gesture for him to sit on the edge of the bathtub next to the shower. He complies without argument, which is unusual enough to make me raise an eyebrow. Elijah just shrugs, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"What can I say?" he murmurs. "I've learned to pick my battles."

I kneel before him, retrieving the jar of soothing cream from the counter. As I unscrew the lid, the sharp medicinal scent fills the air, cutting through the lingering steam from the shower.

Gently, I take one of Elijah's wrists in my hand. His skin is warm and slightly damp from the shower, and I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers. I scoop out a dollop of cream and begin to massage it into the tender flesh around his wrist.

Elijah hisses softly as the cool gel makes contact with his skin, but he doesn't pull away. I work the cream in with careful, circular motions, my touch firm but gentle. As I work, I can feel Elijah's eyes on me, studying my face intently. The silence between us is charged, heavy with unspoken words and half-formed thoughts.

"You know," Elijah says softly, breaking the silence, "in another life, we could have been friends. Maybe more."

I pause in my ministrations, looking up to meet his gaze. Those icy blue eyes are uncharacteristically serious, the usual spark of defiance replaced by something softer, almost wistful.

"In another life," I agree, my voice equally quiet. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it - meeting Elijah under normal circumstances, getting to know him over drinks and dinner dates rather than through kidnapping and torture. It's a surprisingly appealing thought.

But then reality crashes back in. This is who we are, who I am. There's no room for 'what ifs' or alternate timelines in our world.

I lead Elijah back into the bedroom, guiding him towards the St. Andrew's cross. He goes willingly, which is still a novelty. As I secure him to the cross, I'm careful not to make the restraints too tight. We want him uncomfortable, not in pain. At least, not from this.

Once he's secured, Elijah tilts his head, a wry smile playing at his lips. "I think I'm starting to see the appeal of this whole '12 Days of Christmas' thing," he drawls, "Though I have to say, your interpretation is a bit more... intense than the traditional version."

I arch an eyebrow, intrigued by his sudden playfulness. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

Elijah shrugs as much as his restraints allow. "Well, for one thing, I don't recall 'four sharp knives' being part of the original song. Though I suppose it has a certain ring to it. So, what's the plan for day five? Five golden cock rings? I’m surprised your previous guests haven’t spilled your secrets."

A slow smile spreads across my face, but it's not the friendly, amused expression Elijah might be expecting. No, this smile is darker, predatory. It's the smile of a shark that's scented blood in the water.

"Oh, Elijah," I purr, reaching into my pocket. "Dead men tell no tales. And you should know by now that we're full of surprises."

Before he can react, I pull out a syringe filled with clear liquid. In one swift motion, I press the needle to his neck and depress the plunger. Elijah's eyes widen in shock and fear, a gasp escaping his lips as the drug enters his system.

"What... what did you..." he gasps.

I step back, a slow smile spreading across my face as I watch the drug take effect. "Oh, don't worry, pretty boy. You're going to love this one."

Elijah's breathing quickens, his pupils dilating as the drug begins to course through his system. I can see the confusion and apprehension in his eyes, warring with the sudden flush spreading across his skin.

"You see," I continue, my voice low and seductive, "that company you filed the injunction against? They've been experimenting with some... off-the-books pharmaceuticals and your injunction reminded me of that. And this little beauty?" I hold up the now-empty syringe. "It's like a nuclear aphrodisiac."

Elijah's body begins to tremble, fine tremors running through his muscles as the drug takes hold. His cock, which had been soft, begins to harden at an alarming rate.

"It makes you so hard, so horny, that you'd do anything for a fuck," I purr, watching with fascination as Elijah's arousal grows visibly. "The kicker is, it lasts in your system for five hours."

A low moan escapes Elijah's lips, sweat beads on his forehead, his skin flushing a deep pink. A blank look flashes across his face for a second before it's washed away in a sea of need.

"Now, I don't know how long it will take to lodge this appeal," I muse, checking my watch. "So you only have yourself to blame for what comes next."

Elijah's eyes, now dark with lust, lock onto mine. "Please," he gasps, his voice rough with need.

I chuckle wickedly, reaching out to trail a finger down his chest. Elijah arches into the touch, desperate for more contact. "Oh, I know exactly what you need," I purr. "But I'm afraid I can't stay to help. After all, I have an appeal to file."

With that, I turn and walk towards the door, Elijah's desperate pleas echoing behind me. As I reach the threshold, I pause, looking back over my shoulder.

"Don't worry, pretty boy," I call out. "I'm sure Iris will take good care of you while I'm gone."

The last thing I see before I close the door is Elijah, bound to the cross, his body trembling with need, his eyes wild with drug-induced lust. It's an image that will stay with me all day, fueling my own desires as I navigate the mundane world of legal proceedings.

As I make my way down the stairs, I can't help but smile. Today promises to be very interesting indeed.