Page 4 of The Monster I Am

When the young man began to stutter, he heard what was said as well as what wasn’t — the pain and the misery — and Rhys was torn between wanting to prod at that wound and scoop him into his arms to soothe it away.

Stupid.

It was all so, so very stupid.

“I came.” The words were barely more than a whisper, holding shame and self-loathing as the slave uttered them.

“So he’s sensitive,” Rhys remarked to Russell. “That doesn’t make him a masochist. Well, either way, he’s beautiful enough to play with. I’ll use him this evening. Come along, slave.” He gripped the young man’s upper arm, guiding him in the direction of the bondage frame set near the center of the room.

Dominic Bancroft had wanted a show.

Rhys would give him one.

He was satisfied when the human followed him, docile and obedient for all that he was shaking, and he made quick work of securing him in place in the steel manacles attached to each corner of the dark wooden and leather frame. His touches were firm — not gentle, but not harsh, either, not yet — but he didn’t touch the slave for any longer than he had to.

There would be time for that soon enough.

“We’re going to create beautiful art together,” Rhys murmured, and he trailed his fingers down the slave’s back, eliciting a shudder from him. “And you’ll make such lovely music for me, won’t you, slave?” He would take this slowly. If he really was dealing with a masochist, it would be pleasurable for both of them.

For a little while, at least.

Then it would only be enjoyable for Rhys, even as his demons clawed at him from the inside and demanded that he do more, more, ever more.

“Do you enjoy art?” Rhys murmured to the slave, circling around to stand in front of him. “Do you have a favorite piece? Starry Night? The Scream, perhaps?”

“Please,” the human whispered, the word barely audible. “I don’t— I don’t know anything about— about art. I’m just— Please.”

Rhys tsked, but he supposed that the slave couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen when the Takeover had swept across the world and upended everything he’d known. What had he expected? It was a shame, but that was fine; Rhys had plenty of ideas of his own for what he could ‘paint’ across the slave’s bare chest.

He pulled the sleeve of knives from his pocket, unfolding it to display the wickedly sharp blades. Two short, two medium, and two long, they would do different things when meeting flesh. The shortest would cut deftly without allowing too much blood flow that might interrupt the portrait he would create.

If the slave was lucky, Rhys would have mercy on him and slit his throat with the longer knives at the end of the night, allowing him to be bled dry instead of tortured to death by another.

What a waste.

Rhys had always been a talker when he’d been running a scene, keeping track of his submissive’s state at all times, and for all that this was no consensual scene, it didn’t change old habits.

“If you truly are a masochist, you’ll enjoy this,” he said softly, selecting one of the short knives and tucking the rest away again.

The slave was watching him, eyes wide with fear, and his breaths came in broken gasps. The poor thing was terrified, and Rhys fed on it like he was an incubus from legend.

“Let’s see, shall we? I want to hear each and every breath, each and every moan, each and every cry. If you hold them back, I will know. And I will be displeased.” With his other hand, Rhys caressed the slave’s cheek. “Nod if you understand.”

The slave nodded.

“Good boy,” Rhys said in approval, his fingers sliding away from his cheek. His gaze slid to Dominic, who had come over to watch along with a few other party guests. He smiled at his host, feeling truly alive as the metal of the blade’s handle warmed in his touch. “Kandinsky?” he inquired. “Are you a fan?”

Dominic smiled, inclining his head in approval. “An excellent choice.”

Rhys hadn’t been certain if his host would approve of more modern art, but the lines and angles of Kandinsky’s work were easy enough to replicate. The circles were more challenging to perfectly inscribe into flesh, but there were reasons others liked to watch him work.

He had, over the past ten years, become a master at a craft he’d only dabbled in before the Takeover.

“Breathe,” he advised the slave, “and remain as still as you can. I’ll be vexed if I need to heal you up and start over again.”

He stepped in close, already envisioning the piece in his mind. Composition 8, his favorite of Kandinsky’s works, was one he’d replicated in the past — though never for Dominic. He would be showing off, really, both in his knowledge of the arts and his deftness with the blade.

The first line was a long one, cutting from the center of the slave’s chest down in a diagonal slice toward his left side. As intended, the pressure was just enough to leave a solid line that beaded up with blood without dripping crimson and ruining his canvas before he’d even gotten started.