Viktor hadn't come for play. He was furious. The fire had nearly reached the cellar, and someone would pay. 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 muttered curses in Russian under his breath as he poured himself a drink.
Ayoka knocked softly before entering. She carried a small bottle of the thick, pink liquor in her hands—the kind only a few in the house knew Viktor drank when his rage ran hot.
He didn't say a word. Just gave her a sharp look, then sank back into his usual chair, brooding. Ayoka approached, pouring the pink drink into a goblet with slow precision. Her fingers trembled just slightly, but she kept her face calm. As she handed it to him, Viktor looked away for a moment—lost in deep thought—and she 'accidentally' tipped the cup forward. The syrupy liquid spilled onto his pants in a splash.
He growled low, his glare snapping toward her. Ayoka didn't flinch. "Sorry," she murmured, reaching up quickly to snatch the towel from around his neck. Dropping to her knees, she began dabbing at the stain on his pants, the motion deliberate, slow—measured more in meaning than in haste. Her voice lowered, head bowed.
"Viktor," she said carefully, her words chosen like glass across a blade, "those servants... they don't deserve what's coming. Not this time." He said nothing. Just watched her with that thundercloud expression, his jaw clenched, chest still heaving slightly with the steam of barely checked rage. Her fingers continued, not hurried but intimate, hands now pressing the towel into his leg with just enough pressure to hold his attention. Then, her hand drifted upward, guiding his to her chest. She laid his palm flat against her heart.
It beat steady and firm beneath his hand—real, unwavering. "I trust you with this," she whispered. "If they must bleed, then let me be the blade's edge. But don't soften your strike—I need to feel it, to carry it. Let the weight fall on me, and no one else." The silence thickened between them. His fingers twitched once, but he didn't speak. And that was when she noticed it. Just behind him, deep in the corner of the room—a darker shape that seemed to mimic her posture. A shadow-self. Watching. Smiling. Unnerving.It raised one finger to its lips in a slow, knowing gesture.
Shhh.
Viktor sat for a long time, mostly silent, one hand idly cupping her breast as if it anchored him in the moment. His voice dropped to a low rumble, equal parts command and temptation. "Take off the cloth."
She obeyed, slow at first, her fingers trembling as she peeled the soft fabric from her skin. Viktor moved away briefly, retrieving rope and a crop with methodical calm. But Ayoka, sensing the shift in the air—the weight of what was coming—hurried. She had moved too slowly before. Not this time.
Her nipples prickled in the cool air, despite the warmth outside. But the heat that surged in her chest wasn't weather—it was a warped, rising pulse of power. This felt different from any other time she'd given herself away. Not like the nights she had to beg a master to spare someone else, offering her own body as payment. Not like the shallow victories when she'd traded smiles for mercy that never lasted. Those men always lied. They offered half-punishments and full betrayals.
Tonight, she felt closer to something mythic. Like Esther slipping into the king's chambers, risking everything not for love, but survival. Or Delilah, wrapping strength in soft fingers, knowing what must be done. Even Rahab, who used her place at the city wall not to seduce—but to shield. Ayoka wasn't praying for rescue. She was rewriting the lines. This wasn't sainthood—it was strategy.
She had no prophets to back her, no burning bush to guide her. Just heat on her skin and a decision to lean in.
Maybe Viktor would be different. Maybe he wouldn't. But tonight, it wasn't about the others. It was about her. About survival. About proving something—to him, to herself. She could help those others, maybe. But what use was sacrifice if it left you broken, alone, or buried in someone else's dirt?
Viktor looked at her again—and this time, really looked. His eyes flashed briefly, turning near-black before flickering back to something more human. Ayoka held his gaze, breath caught between courage and surrender. Whatever she was getting into, it couldn't be worse than having no control at all.
A part of her whispered doubts—was this the right thing? But another part, louder and raw, hissed like a wild fire: 'Ain't no sense in dying on virtue's porch.' She crossed the room and gripped the bedpost, jaw set. "Let heaven frown—I've got no use for its smile tonight."
She had promised Sabine she'd carve out a piece of heaven for her son and herself. If this was how she took control—then so be it. She wouldn't be another doll trapped in someone else's display case. If she had to perform, then she'd write the damn script.
As Viktor moved behind her and tightened the ropes—not too loose, not too cruel—something deep inside her stirred. A lock clicked open, one she hadn't realized existed. She didn't flinch.
She was done surviving. This time, she was going to conquer.
Viktor tied her hands to the bedposts and dragged the crop gently over her thighs. He delivered light taps—not meant to hurt, but to gauge her reactions. Ayoka widened her stance slightly, her breath hitching as she leaned into the sensation. Then he moved up between her legs. She shivered as he pressed the crop's edge against her clit before suddenly striking her backside with force. It left a mark, but she didn't flinch.
"Are you taking their place? This is the only time I'll let you back out," he said, his voice low and testing.
Ayoka didn't hesitate. And maybe, just maybe, that's what made it work. She'd waited long enough for permission. For safety. For the 'right' moment. No more. She shook her head firmly, accepting the weight of what was coming.
He smirked, voice dipped in something between mischief and command. "No need to call me 'Master'—that's a whole different kind of game."
His hands moved slowly over her backside, savoring every curve as if it were a vow. With a deliberate swipe of his thumb, he slid her panties aside. The cold press of his middle finger startled her, and she jolted. Her voice dripped with velvet mischief as she purred, "What would you like to be called?"
"You're soaked," he murmured, half-pleased, half-predator. Then he leaned in close, breath warm against her ear like a whispered spell. "Say it in my tongue—Da, Viktor," he whispered, the syllables smooth and heavy with meaning. "Just once. Let me hear it roll off your lips like a promise made in moonlight."
She kept her moans low, breath hitching as she whispered, "Da, Viktor." He pulled his finger away and brought down the first lash—then the second. Each time she said it louder, the shadows writhed as if awakened by the sound. She blinked, disoriented for a moment, wondering if she truly was losing her mind in this house of illusions.
Her thoughts turned to old stories from her youth—tales of vampires cloaked in shadow and blood, who whispered promises before vanishing into mist. Was Viktor one of them? Or was he something else entirely—something darker, older, more complex than just another master in flesh?
Maybe it was the way he wasn't a white man in the traditional sense, or maybe it was the way he carried power differently—like an ancient secret rather than a loud declaration. But whatever it was, it kept her rooted here, willingly. The thought made her stomach twist. She shoved it aside, focused on the sting—the delicious blur of pain and pleasure rising in tandem.
By the fourth and fifth lashes, he struck harder, and his voice held an edge of displeasure. He paused, dragging his fingers over the welts like he was sculpting a confession from her skin. "No more wandering thoughts," he said, his tone cold and commanding. "I want you right here—with me."
Then came the rhythm again. Steady. Measured. And strangely intimate. Each strike lit sparks beneath her skin. She didn't want it to turn her on. But it did. God, it did.
At the fifteenth lash, he stopped. Her last breathless "Da, Viktor" had quivered like a wire pulled too tight. He stepped back, surveying the canvas of her body like an artist with a bruised masterpiece. She trembled—shivering since the tenth strike—but hadn't begged him to stop.
Her panties clung to her soaked thighs, her essence glistening like moonlit honey along her skin. This wasn't just arousal—it was surrender, fierce and unflinching. And Viktor smiled—not with cruelty, but with something darker, deeper. Approval.
He admired how she embraced the moment—but it wasn't simply about the raw heat between them or the marks now decorating her flesh. No, something in this steadied him, grounded him. The rage that had threatened to rip through the house was quiet now. For once, he wasn't seizing control to feel power. He already had it—in his grip, in her trembling surrender, in the trust she'd freely given.
He knelt slowly, reverently, eyes drinking in every detail of her form. He could taste the fear lingering in her aura—but it wasn't weakness. It was part of the dance. Like the last breath before battle. And when he sank his teeth into her panties and tore them away, the primal surge that crashed over him nearly broke free. But he held the line. Barely. Her scent, her defiance, her trust—it awoke something in him far more profound than lust.
And in the back of his mind, steady and undeniable, a whisper rose:
You'll keep your promise.
Even if it meant burning for it later.
Her body stilled, then breathed. In the shadows behind them, something shifted—a reflection not in the mirror, but in fate. Two figures: one dark-skinned, scaled and defiant; the other pale, fanged, and watching. Different blood, different chains, but somehow still the same ache.
They both wanted to be free.
Just in very different ways.
He spread her legs wider, then reached up and released her from the bedpost with a gentleness that belied the command in his voice. It wasn't human, not exactly. It was deeper. Other. "Place your face to the pillow, and raise your rear high," he murmured, his voice no longer quite his own. "Clutch what you must—tonight we trade stripes for kisses."
Then he slipped a blindfold gently over her eyes. Her breathing quickened, chest rising and falling with anticipation. Viktor let out a low, amused laugh, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "If you're still with me, these final five... they'll be something special—just for me."
She tilted her head, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. "Why blindfold me if they're so special? You plannin' to drink my blood or somethin'?"
He cracked his neck slowly, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. While he rummaged through a drawer, shadows danced around them, playing tricks in the flickering candlelight. "Why drink... when I'd rather savor? Let's see what spices suit you best."
Her breath caught in her throat—half dread, half thrill—until the rich scent of healing salve reached her. She peeled the blindfold off and found herself staring at Viktor gently massaging the balm into the fresh welts he'd laid across her thighs. The sensation wasn't soothing—it burned in the most delicious way.
For a split second, Ayoka stilled—something about his focus, his precision, how the shadows clung to his frame—she thought of the old stories. Wendigos that whispered through winter winds, skinwalkers cloaked in human guise, beings that fed on flesh not out of hunger but history. Could Viktor be one of those? A creature that lured with charm and devoured with ceremony?
But she was blindfolded—couldn't see his eyes, only feel the shift in air and the drag of silence. Her heartbeat pounded wild in her chest. A flicker of dread twisted through her—what if he was one of those ancient things from whispered tales? A wendigo with courtly manners? A skinwalker dressed in flesh and charm? She bit her lip, forcing a grin.
Well, if he was going to eat her—she hoped he'd at least wait until her child was grown. Or maybe she was already damned, served up on a platter with lace and resolve.
She exhaled shakily, the burn of the salve mixing with the heat curling through her body. Whatever he was—beast, ghost, monster—she'd already crossed the threshold. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't mind becoming the feast.
She sighed into the mattress, tension loosening, only for her breath to catch again as he revealed a tongue—inhumanly long, serpentine. With calculated care, he brought its tip to her clit, circling with the kind of focus that felt like worship. Then, slowly, that tongue traced down her thighs and coiled lightly around her leg.
Ayoka froze—not from fear, but astonishment. The way his tongue wrapped gently around her calf, then slithered across her other thigh—it felt like a serpent soothing a storm. Her body, tense from doubt and heat, began to relax beneath the strange sensation. It was too inhuman, too precise. Too... familiar, in the way old monsters were familiar.
What was he?
She heard his tongue retreat back into his mouth with a soft wet click, and the sound sent a fresh chill through her spine. Whatever that thing had been—whatever he was—he had reined it in, for now. He leaned in, pressing a kiss against her neck, lips lingering longer than necessary. She could feel him hesitate, sense his longing for her mouth—but he withheld it. Not out of cruelty, but reverence. A kiss on the lips, to him, was sacred—a holy gesture too profound for this moment of tangled heat and shadows.
He paused, his breath a soft kiss of warmth against her chilled skin. It was only then he realized how cold she truly was. The fire had long since died, yet the room throbbed with a thick, rising heat—one not born of flame, but of something more primal. Outside, the blood moon bathed the world in its feverish red, glowing like a fresh wound carved into the heavens.
Then he stood, his silhouette slipping through the shadows with quiet urgency. She could barely hear his footsteps over the pounding of her own heart, but the soft creak of the closet door betrayed his movement. He returned with an extra cover in hand, the thick fabric brushing gently as he draped it across her legs. As the blanket settled, she felt the shift in temperature, slight, but meaningful. The room's chill had deepened, the cold stone beneath her still draining her warmth like a jealous ghost. Yet in that moment, even small comforts felt like anchors, grounding her in this surreal and intimate tempest.
Viktor moved through the shadows and extinguished the last of the lights with slow, deliberate control. As he reached for the blindfold and gently peeled it away, Ayoka blinked against the faint glow. She exhaled, the darkness wrapping around her like silk. She had always preferred the quiet velvet of night—there was safety in shadows, a kind of permission. In the dark, her body didn't brace—it melted.
Viktor, able to see with ease even in pitch black, caught the instant shift in her. The tension in her spine unraveled; her breath deepened, her shoulders eased. Her hips softened into the moment, yielding without fear. The room was quiet, cloaked in intimacy, as if the walls themselves knew better than to speak.
When her gaze dropped, she noticed his knee—firm and patient—nestled between her thighs, applying a slow, deliberate pressure to her center. Though she couldn't see clearly in the dark, her snake eyes adjusted just enough to catch the warmth of his body heat. It wasn't intrusive; it was an unspoken question made flesh. She gasped, her breath catching, hand clenching the blanket as her hips responded with a slight, instinctive lift. The gesture was quiet, but the message it carried was clear: permission wrapped in tension.
The darkness, for all its mystery, had never felt so honest.
It was wordless—until it wasn't.
Viktor's gaze lingered on her face, studying the shifts in her breath, the way her lips parted slightly as if waiting for something unspoken. Then, his voice, low and husky, broke the silence. "Ayoka... are you sure?"
She nodded slowly, but he didn't move just yet.
"Say it," he prompted, his palm warm against her skin. "I need to hear you say it."
Her voice came quietly but steadily. "Yes, Viktor."
Only then did he smile—deep, slow, and dangerous—and settled in closer, the tension between them crackling like a storm waiting to break.
Viktor positioned himself with a cocky grin, voice low and edged in dark velvet. "They say I can be a handful, moya dorogaya." Ayoka let out a breathless laugh, the sound husky and teasing as her words rolled off her tongue like silk-dipped blades. "You ain't the first man I reckoned might break me clean in half."
But when he finally entered her—moving with a rhythm that spoke of ownership more than comfort—Ayoka understood exactly what he had meant. This time, she didn't flinch. She accepted it—the ache, the stretch, the quiet vow hidden in every push and pull.
Even if she never uncovered what he truly was—a vampire, a wendigo, a god in flesh—one truth pulsed louder than the rest: he belonged to her tonight. In fire, in shadow, in sin and surrender.