Viktor hadn’t come to play. He was furious. The fire had nearly reached the cellar, and someone would pay. He put it out as if it were nothing, calling on the dark to smother the flames before they could spread, but the damage mattered. That barn was a hinge in the operation. When it burned, work stalled, routes closed, and people lost the thin safety that kept everything moving. It was one of the better barns, the kind families clustered near when they refused to head north. Slave hunters made that journey too dangerous, too long. Some ran south instead, toward Mexico, where escape was possible and where his patron had friends who could hide them.

The burning barn dragged up an old memory, sharp and unwelcome. Barbados rose in his mind first. An island of bright sun and sugar wind, beautiful at a distance, lethal up close. Before America. Before routes and quiet bargains.

He had been sent there as a condition of a deal. His patron told him that if he went and learned, the arrangement would move faster before he was sent on. Viktor accepted with a confidence that embarrassed him now.

He believed himself prepared. He had grown up understanding class, rank, and power among people who looked like him, mistaking that familiarity for wisdom. White, armed, untouchable. He did not yet understand the difference between classism and racism, or how cruelty sharpened once skin, culture, and origin were added to the ledger.

Barbados taught him that lesson the hard way. Among lower immortals, overseers, and men who survived by grinding others down, he learned that a savior’s certainty was just another form of arrogance. The island stripped it from him.

Lessons or not, he knew this much remained unchanged. Chains or no chains, people needed reminding that burning a barn did more than make a point. It crippled operations. It endangered routes. His patron might be capable of mercy, even forgiveness, but he was not a fool, and Viktor would not let chaos be mistaken for resistance.

Shirtless and still damp from a rushed bath, a towel thrown around his neck, he walked into his private lounge with blood wine in one hand and rage in his bones. His chest, broad and dusted with hair, still gleamed with heat. He tipped the bottle and frowned. Empty. The servant had forgotten to clear the discarded bottles again, leaving the useless glass behind for guests who liked collecting them. Viktor hissed under his breath, “Блядь… идиоты,” (damn it… idiots) slammed the bottle down. He was already forming a name in his mind, another person to be added to the list of punishment.

Ayoka knocked softly before entering. She carried a small bottle of thick pink liquor in her hands, the kind only a few in the house knew Viktor drank when his rage ran hot. Her posture was careful, almost timid, her voice already pitched a shade sweeter than usual.

He didn’t say a word. He gave her a sharp look, then sank back into his usual chair, brooding. Ayoka approached and poured the pink drink into a goblet with deliberate slowness. Her hands shook just enough to be noticed. When she offered it to him, her fingers slipped. Not by accident. The syrupy liquid tipped forward and spilled onto his pants.

He growled low, his glare snapping toward her. Ayoka blinked up at him, wide-eyed, soft-voiced. “Oh… I’m sorry,” she said, sweet and breathless, as if the words weighed nothing at all. She snatched the towel from around his neck and dropped to her knees, dabbing at the stain with careful urgency.

Her movements were precise, practiced, though she played at clumsiness. She stayed on her knees, using only her hands to clean the spill from his pants, slow and careful, eyes lowered. Her voice remained gentle, almost childish, as if she were afraid to disturb him.

“Master Viktor,” she said softly, still kneeling as her hands continued their careful work.

His breath grew heavier. “Just say Viktor,” he replied, low and strained.

She nodded without looking up. “Viktor,” she said again, gentler now.

When the stain was gone, she did not retreat. She rose slowly, deliberately, until she stood between his knees. Both of her hands settled on his thighs, palms warm and steady, touching him openly as she leaned her upper body forward.

“Those children came to me asking for help,” she said quietly. “Tell me…” She paused, then leaned closer, her breath brushing his ear. She gave a small, intentional nip. Her voice dropped. “You weren’t going to hurt them.”

The silence thickened. Viktor’s chest expanded beneath her, broad and tense, and then he exhaled slowly. Smoke slipped from his mouth in a low, steady stream, curling past her shoulder and vanishing into the dim. Ayoka didn’t see it, but she felt it—the tightening in his chest, the heat pulling inward as he spoke.

“I was going to punish the parents,” he said, voice low, deceptively calm. “And then the parents would punish their children. That is how order is taught.”

Ayoka stiffened at once. She shook her head, soft curls brushing his jaw as she shifted on his lap—sitting backward in the chair, facing him, her thighs hooked around the sides of the seat. Her knees tucked in close, calves crossing behind the chair as her torso pressed to his. One arm slid around his shoulders, the other braced against his chest, her weight grounding him. “No. No, Viktor,” she murmured quickly. “That isn’t good. That only teaches fear to eat itself.”

Viktor laughed then—low, brief, and humorless. As the sound left him, his eyes drained of their color, sinking into a slick, total black, the kind that swallowed reflection.

He leaned closer, breath warm at her temple. “So,” he asked quietly, almost amused, “how should I handle my business?” His gaze pinned her. “What are you going to do about it?”

She lifted a hand and touched his beard, thumb tracing slow, familiar lines along his jaw. Then she tilted her head just enough to catch his eyes, searching them, holding them. “I can take that first,” she whispered. “All that frustration. All that anger you were going to give them.” Her voice softened further, honeyed but steady. “Anything you like.”

His hands slid to her lower waist as he leaned forward, reaching past her to retrieve the goblet. The motion pulled her closer, her body fully aligned with his—her breasts pressed firmly into his chest as he took a slow drink, forcing himself to breathe, to listen, to let her words settle.

That was when she noticed it—both of them at once. Their shadows had thickened on the wall, but hers especially looked wrong. It mimicked her posture on his lap, then did a small, restless bounce, like it was trying to signal something she didn’t yet understand. The motion repeated, subtle and insistent.

Ayoka felt a prickle of warning and glanced sideways, just enough to catch her shadow in her peripheral vision. It was looking at her now. No words came from it—only the motion. One finger lifted. Lips pressed together in a silent command.

Ayoka blinked once, slow and deliberate. When her eyes opened again, the shadow had gone still, its shape returned to normal, as if nothing had happened at all.

Viktor sat there in silence, saying nothing. One finger traced slow, absentminded lines along the curve of her backside, unhurried, possessive. The touch made Ayoka squirm despite herself, heat flickering low in her belly, but she caught it and stilled her body.

He rose without warning and lifted her, strong hands secure at her hips. He drew her close and licked the side of her neck, unhurried. Ayoka squirmed again, a soft breath escaping before she steadied herself.

He set her on the bed and stepped away. Viktor crossed to the radio, turning the dial until music crackled through. He listened, adjusted it once more, then looked back at her. She was still in her belly dancer clothes. He wanted to see her move.

Viktor listened for a moment, then adjusted the dial again. “I suppose we can change it up a bit,” he said. “You shall dance.”

Ayoka tilted her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You want me to dance?”

“Yes,” he replied simply. “You shall dance. And take off the cloth. This is the right song.”

Viktor sat on the bed, watching. Ayoka let the rhythm take her, hips finding the beat, arms lifting, the tension easing into something bright and alive. She used the towel as a prop, sliding it through her hands, letting it frame her movements so the dance felt slower, more deliberate. She was enjoying herself. For a moment, her mind and body were aligned, the choice feeling clean and present.

As the music carried on, she began to shed pieces of her clothing one by one, each movement part of the dance rather than an ending. She felt his attention like heat on her skin.

Viktor moved away briefly and retrieved rope and a crop with methodical calm. When Ayoka finished her dance, the music was still humming low, he held them up so she could see.

“Do you truly want to take the punishment,” he asked evenly, “in whatever way I decide?”

“Yes, Viktor,” she said without hesitation.

He guided her onto the bed, firm hands positioning her, her legs steady beneath her. He bound her wrists carefully, secure but not cruel, then paused. “Tell me if I strike too hard.”

“Please,” Ayoka replied, breathless but sure. “I can take it.”

The first strike was light, more a question than a blow. She exhaled, steady. “You can do more,” she said. “You can make me bleed.”

The next strike landed harder. Skin split. Viktor froze, the moment stretching as he searched her face. Then he heard it, the moan she made, raw and unguarded. Something inside him settled.

He continued, measured and deliberate, each strike controlled, until the count blurred and the tension finally bled out of him. When he stopped, his hands were steady. His breathing was calm.

He eased her down fully onto the bed and set the crop aside. Viktor took out a small jar of salve and worked it gently into the welts. It smelled of orchids and something darker beneath. Ayoka hissed at the sting, then relaxed as his touch turned careful, reverent.

He leaned close, tending her with deliberate patience. His tongue revealed itself, warm and deliberate, tracing over the salve and the broken skin. It moved with purpose, wrapping along her thighs as he spread her legs just enough to reach where the marks had caught the inside of them. The healing worked slowly, unmistakably. 

Viktor reached for the lamp and turned it off. Darkness folded around them as he climbed over her, his weight careful but certain. She felt his breath at the top of her neck, warm and steady, a promise held just long enough to make her shiver.

“Ayoka,” he asked quietly, close enough that the words brushed her skin, “are you ready? Do you truly want this?”

She did not hesitate. “Fuck yes,” she said, then added, breathless and honest, “but please, don’t be gentle. I hate that.”