Page 20 of Violent Love: Viktor

He wanted a pet.

The word spun in my mind like a curse, looping until my thoughts frayed. Pet.Suka. Bitch. Crawling. Barking. The collar at my throat felt heavier by the hour, a silent noose tightening each time I remembered how quickly I’d obeyed.

How low I’d sunk.

I lay down, blanket cocooned around me, the room too quiet, too still. The bars on the window let in only a sliver of moonlight, but I stared at it like it could offer hope.

It didn’t.

He wasn’t coming tonight. Not with food. Not with punishment.

I was forgotten for now, left to rot in silence, too sick to hunger and too numb to cry.

???

I rubbed my eyes and yawned—until my brain caught up with my surroundings.

He was there.

Viktor sat in a chair beside the bed, unmoving, expression carved from stone. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

My breath caught in my throat.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp shirt, and shiny shoes today, but there was no food in sight.

“How should a bitch greet her Master?” he finally asked, voice quiet but firm.

I stiffened—the question laced with threat. I peeled the coarse blanket off and slid to the floor, my knees hitting the cold surface as I crawled toward him. Every movement felt like a fresh layer of skin was being stripped away.

When I reached his feet, I froze. I tried not to think. Not to feel. Just wait.

“Petrov died last night,” he said flatly.

I risked a glance up, searching for some flicker of humanity in his face.

Nothing.

Was that a warning? A reminder?

He looked clean and groomed. His hair was neater today, shorter on the sides, and his beard trimmed. But the closer shave only highlighted the ruined scar that marred the left side of his face. He looked almost normal—almost—but nothing about him was.

“Kiss my feet.”

He placed his hands calmly on his thighs.

My stomach turned.

The image of Petrov’s peeled flesh flashed behind my eyes, and I bent without another word, pressing my lips to the tops of his polished shoes. I held my breath, hoping it was enough.

“I said, kiss my feet. Those were my shoes.”

He tapped a finger against his leg. The large star inked on the back of his hand caught my eye. I purposefully avoided the snake.

“Sorry, Master,” I whispered. My voice shook as I adjusted my posture and unlaced his shoes.

Each tug of the laces felt like a countdown to some invisible line I was about to cross.

I removed his shoes with trembling hands, careful, reverent. Then his socks. Lifting his trousers slightly, I exposed bare skin—lightly dusted with dark hair, toes clean and trimmed.