Nalik doesn’t rush. He even goes so far as to temporarily forget about the woman chained up in his basement. When he wakes later that morning, it’s Sunday and his day is conveniently clear. His routine is the same - get up, work up, breakfast, then shower. Stepping out of the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist, water droplets gathering on his skin before dripping sown his chest and taut stomach. Tugging on a pair of soft denim jeans - which are well worn, like he saves them for occasions such as this. A black tshirt stretches over his torso, a color that won’t show any blood spatter should today happen to get messy.

In reality, he intends to wear her down, slowly chipping at her resolve until she’s easier to break. Descending into his custom made belly of hell, he approaches the steel door. Before opening it, he cranks the air up to something comfortable and lets oxygen flood back in through the vents. A moment later, he steps inside.

His little thief is exactly as he left her. She sags in her restraints, her hands a shade of blue as her weight pulls her down. Her skin is pale and pebbled, her nipples hard in the chilly air. “Sleep well?” Nalik walks straight past the body of the dead security guard.

Before he approaches her, he grabs one of the metal chairs, the one with restraints built in. Setting it beside her, he grabs the chain, making quick work of the clips and locks that hold her place. Her skin is cold under the warmth of his palms and he navigates her into the chair. She’s entirely unhelpful, though he suspects it isn’t intentional. A night with low oxygen was incredibly taxing on the body. Nalik produces a small key, releasing her hands from the cuffs, though he doesn’t rub feeling back into her hands, nor does he try to soothe the red marks where metal has cut into her skin. Her wrists are promptly secured in leather cuffs, her ankles secured in the same fashion. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the pulley system sliding down the track to the farthest wall, out of the way.

He leans down in front of her to grip her chin and force her look up at him. Her normally fiery stare is unfocused, her head lolling gently even in his grasp. Her lips are a pale shade of blue, slowly recovering their color with each breath of oxygen she takes.

I hope that guy was your interior decorator too.

He looks over his shoulder at her, a brow arched. She's staring at his dead head of security with a slight smile, as if she finds his presence here amusing. Cause you could really use a new one. He turns to face this time. No one else has ever complained about his decorating, they always had far more pressing concerns than the inside of his home. But she's not referring to his home, just this room. One corner of his mouth lifts in vague amusement. "You're the first to think so." The room is deliberating bare, it made for a quick and easy clean up. Every cabinet and drawer is sealed against water, allowing for the entire room to be bleached and hosed without worry. "Are you hoping to fill that position too?" It's the closest he's come to cracking a joke in a long time. Nalik Verlice isn't known for his sense of humor.

High as a kite, she's slumped in the chair, her body relaxed despite the torment she's only just begun to experience. "You don't seem the type." Whether he was right or wrong in his assumption, he didn't give a single fuck. Each word that drips from his lips is carefully chosen to lull her into a false sense of ease, to help her to lean further into the effects of the drug. He needed her to talk, preferably about something useful to him, but he'd take any advantage he could right now. Whatever minuscule weakness that she gifts him, he will ruthlessly exploit. A part of him is giddy with anticipation. He's eager to feel the rapid thrum of her pulse under his hand, a telltale sign of her anxiety, her fear.

With his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the cabinets, his emerald stare is slow to slip down her body following his words, as if he's pointing out all the obvious reasons why she doesn't scream interior decorator. Its two fold though, because while he hasn't yet sexualized her nakedness, he's still a man. He doesn't not notice her perky tits, her cinched waistline, her smooth skin that begs to be reddened. Its a shame really, but she's not here to warm his bed, she's here to die.

The drug does what it’s supposed to do. It loosens her tongue and drops her inhibitions. It’s obvious in the way she speaks, the subtle slur, her cavalier tone. She tells him what he already knows, that everyone around him is afraid to step out of line, to vocalize that he might wrong. His smirk is vicious. The twinkle in his eyes is cruel. ”I prefer it that way.” He didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought, least of all her - who wouldn’t see anything beyond these four walls. His house is professionally decorated, every detail approved, a true control freak. That fact alone has him certain that she’s getting nowhere near anything of his. Even when she claims ambition. Though she amuses herself, claiming herself to be a bit too stabby. Then the tone of her voice changes. For you, though… She purrs. The sickeningly sweet tone of her voice tells him that she’s cracking jokes. But the huskiness in her voice? He buries the thought under an arched brow, as if to say ‘really?’.

Years of restraint keeps him from huffing out a breath. She’s a dead woman walking. A prisoner. If he wanted a quick fuck, it’d be painfully easy to find one. It’s dreadfully boring. That doesn’t stop him from considering it. Especially when he watches as she all but devours him with her eyes. By the time she manages to force her eyes back to his, twisted amusement dances in his emerald eyes. Pushing off the counter, he approaches like a big cat hunting its next meal. He knew exactly what she was looking at. While Nalik didn’t pride himself on his looks, he couldn’t deny that is made things a hell of a lot easier to be good looking. And he knew he was good looking. Older than most thought, he took care of himself, not for the longevity of his appearance, but because he needed to be in his prime. Always. He stood atop an empire, a King couldn’t appear weak.


”More or less creepy than the way you’re looking at me?” He knows its the drug in her system. That doesn’t stop him from toying with her. Large, warm hands settle on either chair arm, resting mostly over her cuffs so that only his fingertips dance across her skin. She’s still cold to the touch. Nalik leans in close, so that she has to crane her neck back to look up him.

Her infinite sarcasm doesn’t yet grate at his nerves. They are only just getting started and he’s got as much time as he wants, as much as she can handle before her body gives out. Watching her crack and splinter before she finally breaks, will be well worth all the trouble she’s forced him to endure. They’ve only had mere hours together, but in those hours, Nalik has cracked down on his security, lacking everything up so tightly that one could suffocate. Whoever sent her, they wouldn’t be snaking anymore thief’s past his defenses. Nor would it be so easy to find what they’re looking for. The safe she had been trying to crack when he found her is now empty, its contents shifted to another one of many hiding places he has at his disposal. A part of him almost wanted to make it easier to find, to lure her employer out of the shadows. Maybe one day he will, when he’s not deep in the belly of his home, tormenting the woman in front of him.

This close, he can see every lash that surrounds her fiery eyes, every freckle that marks her skin. Just as he sees the way her body shivers at his proximity - no doubt a mixture of the drug and her fear, her uncertainty. What was he going to do to her? That same proximity gives him up the opportunity to spot the tear that clings her bottom lashes of her closed eyes, clumping the delicate hairs together. Lifting a hand with seemingly infinite gentleness, he cups her jaw, his thumb swiping under her eye to wipe away the “offending” tear. ”Crying already?” Saccharine lyrics are faintly mocking, like he’s disappointed that she’s already beginning to crack. And he hasn’t even cut into her pretty skin yet. ”We haven’t even gotten started.” He croons.

Her tear is a weakness he exploits.

His thumb draws a slow line across her lower lip, smearing her tear across her soft skin for her to taste. Nalik crouches in front of her then, positioned between her parted knees. Dropping his hand from her face, each palm lands on her knees. She’s at his mercy and she knows it. The drug forces her own body to betray her. That doesn’t stop him from enjoying the feel of her soft, cool skin under his hands. Agonizingly slow, he moves his hands up her thighs. All while his uncaring eyes are fixed on her face. Was she fuckable? Certainly. But he isn’t here to get his dick wet. He’s here’s to break her, to find out who sent her and what they want. By any means necessary. If it’s his proximity, his dangerously seductive touch, then so be it. She’ll be sobbing at his feet by dinner, he’s confident of it. And he secretly craves it.

Confusion washes over her features as she examines his wet fingertips. She looks like she's seeing her own tears for the first time. Its fascinating to watch. He doesn't interrupt her, he studies her. Its why he's so good as reading others, at pinpointing weaknesses to exploit. Her eyes fall close and her head lolls slightly. He wouldn't be surprised if she was dizzy. She'd been through a hellish night and then he'd given her a healthy dose of MDM. But when she opened her eyes, her eyes fixated on him differently. He doesn't miss a moment of it, watching it play out across her face.

Her nostrils flare as her breathing deepens. Her pupils, already blown wide from her high, got seemingly larger. A moment later, her entire body is yielding to him. Her submission is so dangerously sweet. One hit was addictive. A slow smile stretches across his mouth. Perfectly white teeth. Its not a kind smile. Its filled with terrible promises. This is the first step in teaching her to like it.

Nalik doesn't stop when her thighs soften with invitation. She's going to hate herself in the morning. One hand lingers at the top of her thigh, gently kneading the muscle. His opposite hands is far more sinful. He twists his wrist and fingertips dance across her inner thighs. He damn near feel the warmth of her cunt. And yes, he's very much aware of the reckless decision he just made. Keeping her make things messy. She's messy. He doesn't do messy. But is that satisfaction in his dark stare?

That same hand travels upward, following the curve of her hip and up her waist. His thumb brushes the underside of her breast - a soft sweeping motion, back and forth.

A sharp pinch of her nipple would shock her. But he somehow doubted she'd protest. Not with the way she holds his stare. Like he's the only thing holding her in place. Its fucking mindblowing. And now he's made up his mind, he would see it again and next time, she'd be sober. Anticipation hums low in his throat and it sounds a lot like praise.

She looks like he just might be able to convince her to the worship the ground he walks on. Oh how the hatred is going to fester tomorrow. Maybe he should put a mirror in here, so she can see first hand just how much she hates herself for letting him do this. For being so wanton. For none other than his touch. Her hips flex under his hands, seeking what he doesn't yet give her. Too bad he's busy tomorrow, he won't get to see the look on her face in person when realization sets in. He'd only see it on the cameras. His schedule would have her alone with thoughts for most of the day and in the deafening silence of the room, well, he couldn't imagine she'd enjoy it very much.

Her cry is sharp and loud, but its only a sound of surprise. Undaunted, she moans. The sounds this woman makes could very well be his undoing. This obsession would undoubtedly prove lethal. It spread like an infection. Rolling the hard nub between his thumb and forefinger, gently twisting before he adds that bit of pain and pulls her nipple until she feels the burn of the stretch. Nalik still watches her.

He watches every last trace of fight leave her body as she gives in. He watches in raw detail as she gets lost in the sensation of his touch, in the pleasure of it. She'd learn just how good he could give it, when she behaved. They'd undoubtedly spend the next several days testing her resilience under far more painful conditions. So he peppers every inch of her with attention, a sweet kiss followed by a sharp bite. He wants her writhing. Begging. Would she resist? He thought so.

Curiosity would always kill the cat. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, one hand still tormenting her nipple. Getting bit was a risk he was willing to take. Nalik is his own special brand of fucked up. He thrives on pain with his pleasure. A part of him wants to feel the warm, wet, heat of her mouth - no matter the cost. Pressing against her lips, he forces his thumb into her mouth, like its a guilty pleasure.