Page 179 of Violent Possession

“They’ll fight over you, my boy! Pull each other’s hair to see who gets to suck you off first!”

The look of pure disgust on Alexei’s face upon hearing this is so priceless I almost burst out laughing.

The nurse hesitates, because her profession demands compassion, but she abandons the battlefield with a silent reverence, as if asking forgiveness for not having been better. They leave together.

Marcus, of course, only notices the vacuum when it’s too late. He turns, ready with some quip about “shitty service”, and then he sees. He sees Alexei. He sees the expression of ice, the tense line of his jaw, the celestial-blue glint of his eyes that don’t know how to laugh.

It’s the best part of my night.

I almost feel sorry for him. Marcus is terrified of the Malakovs. I remember the first time he saw Alexei. Marcus nearly fainted. He spent the next week sending me newspaper headlines about bodies found in rivers, with the caption “IT WAS THEM”. He doesn’t understand how I can breathe the same air as one of them without having an aneurysm. But his fear has always had a price. When he saw the value of the contract Alexei offered, he forgot about all the dead and could only talk about private jets.

Their relationship is this: Marcus trembles, and Alexeihateshim. He’s never said it to Marcus’s face, of course. Alexei is too polite for that. But he has told me, more than once, that he considers Marcus “a grifting parasite who latched onto his one lucky bet”. A painfully accurate assessment.

What Alexei doesn’t understand is that, years ago, when I had nothing but a hole where my arm used to be, this same parasite gave me a couch to sleep on and convinced me that a cripple could still smash someone’s face in for money. It’s a debt I’ve insisted on keeping, even against the boss’s wishes.

“Marcus,” Alexei says. Just that.

Marcus shudders. He tries to smile, tries to recover his persona, tries to exist again. “M-Mr. Malakov,” he stammers. “I was just… I was congratulating the champion. Your… your boy is a legend!”

Alexei doesn’t move an inch. The air around him takes on the chill of a deep cave. He has the perfect posture of someone whois always prepared for the next act—be it a handshake or a point-blank shot.

“Get out.”

The dismissal is so final, so absolute, that Marcus doesn’t even try to argue. He mutters a pathetic “yes, sir”, throws me one last confused and terrified look, and practically runs out of the room with his gold chains swinging.

Only when the door closes behind him do I say, “Hey, boss.”

I’m smiling. And it wasn’t conscious.

Alexei turns to me, and the ice in his face melts in a slow, calculated stage, revealing small cracks through which tiny signs of warmth, of interest, leak out. Only I can recognize the difference.

He advances. His shoes make no sound on the marble. I think he would make a point of floating, if it were possible.

He stops less than half a meter from me. There is no air barrier that doesn’t disintegrate under his blue gaze, and it’s impossible not to notice how he examines every new cut on my face, every swelling, every trace of blood.

“The fight was… acceptable,” he says, low. In his language, it’s a romantic poem. “But your defense in the third round was careless.”

For some reason, that makes me laugh. “Sorry, boss. I’ll remember to be more careful next time a Ukrainian giant tries to rip my head off.”

His response is a barely visible arch of an eyebrow, the kind of micro-expression that only reveals itself to someone who has spent a lot of time in the same enclosed space. “You’d better remember.” He allows this threat. “We have a meeting with the Japanese sponsors in forty minutes. I want you clean, presentable, and silent by my side.”

I think about obeying. Playing the part of the trained dog, delivering what he expects of me: silence, respect, utility. Butthere’s a strange energy vibrating inside me—maybe it’s the residue from the fight, maybe it’s a hunger for something that isn’t blood. I get up from the bench, my whole body protesting, and stop so close to him that I can feel the static electricity from his cold wool suit. The height difference between us, though small, has never seemed so pornographic.

“Forty minutes?” I repeat, feigning innocence. I extend my metal hand and hook it into the lapel of his expensive jacket, pulling him closer. “That’s a lot of time, boss…”

I kiss him. It’s languid, slow, a silent thank you for coming, for existing. I feel his lips curve into a half-smile against mine.

He pulls back just enough for me to see his eyes rolling through possibilities, weighing consequences, and then he speaks, his voice huskier than before, “Later.”

I see the poorly disguised desire, the eagerness he denies with his mouth but can’t hide in his eyes.

I pull him back, kissing him again, this time with more hunger, nibbling his lower lip. “Not even a quickie? To celebrate my victory?” I whisper against his mouth.

This time, he laughs—a puff of air in the middle of the kiss. He raises his hand and places it on my chin, holding my face with a firmness that is pure caress. He gently pushes me away.

“Later, Griff,” he repeats.

He gives me one last look, one that says more than any words, and then he steps away, turning to get a clean towel for me.