This is no surprise to anyone with any inkling of who he is, but it doesn't make enduring his unique brand of torture any easier. Hypatia hadn't howled or begged when he'd left and sealed her into her tomb with a dead man, but she could sense fate coming for her all the same. The lights remaining bright enough to temporarily blind a person if they stared up too long was an expected development, dragged right from a Torture 101 handbook. The chill that seeped into the room next was equally unsurprising, but that didn't make it easier to endure; it didn't make her skin pebble any less, nor her shivering any less subtle the more that cool temperature soaked into her bones. It had taken her a little while to figure out what else he'd done though. It was subtle, the way her breaths came a little heavier, a little faster—easily brushed off as her mounting anxiety. It wasn't until her head began to swim that she realized the problem wasn't her, but the room, forcing her to work for every breath and coherent thought. As the hours passed, her ability to string coherent thoughts together lessened until Hypatia's brain was a muddled mess of broken thoughts that all agreed on one thing: she was going to die.
At this point, she has no idea how many hours have passed. Lucid, she would have been counting, but her current state doesn't allow for such a thing. Even through her bleary vision and addled thoughts, she can feel the burning ache in every joint and muscle throughout her body. She manages to look up at one point, blinking against the buzzing lights to squint at her hands, which she isn't entirely convinced she can feel any longer; they're a shade of blue that's frankly concerning, but Hypatia sees them and giggles, borderline hysteric. It's not like she'll need her hands once she's dead, anyway. Her head drops back down to loll against her upper arm, eyes half lidded and heavy. Has it been an hour? Two? Ten? She couldn't even begin to guess.
Her teeth chatter between labored breaths, and despite the way she looks almost relaxed, slumped against the pull of the chains, her heart is racing a thunderous pulse. Every inch of her skin is covered in gooseflesh, and she's noticeably pale except for her extremities—particularly her toes, which are a deep red from supporting her weight for so long. Despite the fact that her nipples are hard and her breasts pebbled, the fact that she's naked doesn't even register anymore. But even trussed up like a pig for slaughter, Hypatia is objectively beautiful; she's tall, her limbs long and toned, and lean from years of training and regular deprivation of basic necessities. With her arms stretched above her head, the edges of her ribs are visible beneath tan skin. There isn't a trace of extra fat to find on her, and there's a slight definition of noticeable abs leading to her navel. The thatch of red hair between her legs is neatly groomed, and in a much more orderly fashion than the same color that's now limply framing her face; her braid still hangs halfway down her back, but much of it has come free around the edges, tickling against her face and neck every time the air conditioning pushes it. At first, not being able to tie it back further or scratch the tickling itch had driven her crazy, but she hardly notices anymore.
By the time the door handle rattles and the hinges squeal, Hypatia can't even find the energy to look up—but she does noticeably cringe at the noise, her headache pounding in time with each rapid pulse of her heart. Or is that just the sound of his footsteps drawing closer, counting down the seconds until her death? Her eyes flutter the rest of the way closed, fighting against the slip of her waning consciousness.
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.
Her breathing is deeper now, sucking in oxygen-rich air that drags her closer to clarity with each precious inhale. Hypatia's gaze is still glassy when warm fingers curl around her chin and tip her head up, forcing her to meet his crystal-clear green eyes, no softer than they'd been the night before. With each second that brings her closer to lucidity, her eyes grow a little harder and more closed-off, and when she has some semblance of control over her own body, she twists her head back, trying to jerk free of his grasp.
She tests her restraints, her wrists and ankles rubbing against supple leather, and then immediately regrets it with a wince as the raw skin on her wrists chafes painfully, reminding her that she can finally feel her hands again. She almost wishes they were still numb. Everything aches with acute pain, and although her mind is clearing, Hypatia is not remotely as sharp as she'd been the night before; her body is slow and sluggish, her head still pounding with the after-effects of essentially the worst hangover in existence. "What's next, evil genius?" she mutters in a slurred tone, not sure if she really wants an answer or not. The light at the end of the tunnel seems impossibly far away now.
That dazed look fades from her eyes as her blood re oxygenates and it’s replaced with that same hard glare she had last night. Her expression screams at him that she’ll fight tooth and nail, but from the way she sags in the chair, he knows that her body isn’t capable of an all out war right now. No matter how much she might want to fight him. When she jerks away from him, he lets her, amusement flickering briefly in his eyes. What's next, evil genius? Nalik had been called every name in the book over the course of his life. But evil genius had never made it on the list. At least it hadn’t been said to his face before now. It also makes him laugh. Almost. Stepping back, he strides over to the cabinets, opening a couple of drawers and one cabinet door. He doesn’t tell her a thing, not even when he turns with a syringe full of clear liquid in his hand.
Her words had been slurred, hinting at the weakness that weighed her down. He still anticipates a fight. Adrenaline will flood her veins and give her body the extra kick it so desperately needed. Too bad there’s no escape. Secure in her binds, she isn’t going anywhere, she is exactly where he wants her.
Walking around her, Nalik stands behind her, resting one hand on her shoulder. “Now, we see what you’re made of.” He nearly croons as his free hand wraps around the front of her throat. Out of her sight, his nostrils flare at the feeling of her pulse against his fingertips. It’s enough to make his hand flex around the slender column of her throat. Using his grip to hold her head back against him so that the needle slides effortlessly into the side of her neck. A simple push of the plunger floods her system with the drug.
He doesn’t tell her what it is, though he won’t be surprised if she asks. She’ll find out soon enough. It’s a newer street drug, one that has interesting side effects. While most take it in pill form for the euphoric high it offers, those in his line of work prefer it for its other effects when it’s in an injectable form. The longer he waits, the more she’ll relax, her inhibitions lowering and hopefully, the looser her tongue would become.
Some might call it laziness, jumping straight to a drug rather than plucking one finger nail at a time, or bringing her to the edge of drowning with a good waterboarding. But Nalik wanted answers and he preferred to have those answers before her body gave out and she took her last breath. They would have their time together, her blood would stain the concrete floors and her cries would echo in his skull. Its inevitable. And he can’t wait.
Hypatia doesn't react when the needle sinks into her neck, but she does huff a slight breath from her nostrils at his comment, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Same shit as you, last time I checked," she retorts while staring at the far wall, wishing for anything that she had the freedom of her hands so that she could cross her arms over her chest. She's well aware that he doesn't mean literally, but she'll use snark as her defense mechanism for as long as she can—which, judging by the buzzing starting up beneath her skin, won't be for much longer. Perhaps she could have avoided this fate by simply being less stubborn, but Hypatia is incapable of softening herself, even to save her own skin; her own safety comes second to the person she'd do anything for. Thus, her current predicament.
Tilting her head back, Hypatia closes her eyes and lets her thoughts drift anywhere else, well aware that there's nothing she can do about the impacts of whatever drug he's given her—no doubt something to lower her inhibitions, to make her want to talk. She fills her head with mindless nonsense, so that if and when she starts offering stupid commentary, it isn't about anything she'd prefer to keep private.
Her eyes are glassy when they flutter open again, her pupils blown and dilated. Her head still lolls lazily against the back of the chair as her hooded gaze flickers around the uncomfortably bright and sterile room before Hypatia's stare lands on the body still laying on the ground across the floor. "I hope that guy was your interior decorator too," she says with an amused little snicker, "cause you could really use a new one." A slight sigh parts her lips, but they're lined with a smirk and her tone is remarkably blasé as she casually tells him, "this room is fucking uninspired."
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.
A soft snort flares her nostrils with his dry question—it's almost a joke. "What can I say? I'm ambitious," she answers with a slight shrug, her tone a lackadaisical drawl. But then he says she doesn't seem like the type, and Hypatia cracks a grin, amusement clear on her freckled features. "Yeah, you're right, I probably am a bit too stabby, huh?" She clicks her tongue, giving the room another surveying sweep, and then looks back to Mr. Judgmental with one of her dimples still in place. "For you, though? I'm willing to give it a shot," Hypatia all but purrs in a saccharine tone.
She isn't at all unaware of Nalik's roaming stare, or the way he's lounging casually against the counter with his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed just so, displaying every vein and muscle in his forearms. That is so unfair. Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up, Horny Hypatia. What an inconvenient fucking side effect. Forcing her eyes up to his face, she quirks an eyebrow instead and retorts, "you know it's creepy to stare at a naked girl like that, right?"
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 heart thumps a bit faster when Nalik finally prowls towards her, closing that precious distance between them that she's just now realizing was rather comforting. Now, she's forced to deal with every intimidating inch of him in meticulous detail, and she's in no state to handle their close proximity responsibly. Still, Hypatia clings to her lax expression as her head tips back to peer up at him from hooded lashes. His question makes her scoff. "Uh, more," she tells him with a pointed arch of her brows, like she thinks he must be slow to ask that. And anyway, it's not her fault he decided to inject her with a fucking aphrodisiac. Okay, well, it's actually completely her fault, but that's not the point.
His fingertips brush her wrists, jerking her out of her runaway thoughts; it's like a live current rushes up her arms from the barely-there contact, a stretch of goosebumps creeping along her skin. A shiver zips down her spine, and for the first time, she finds herself a bit ironically grateful that she's restrained too thoroughly to start squirming, or else she might have given in to the urge to rub her thighs together. Hypatia is acutely aware of the growing, unwelcome ache between her legs—and honestly, fuck him for lowering her inhibitions in such a way. Her eyes roll closed, like she might imagine him away. Like she might imagine this whole, stupid plan away.
She doesn't even notice when a single tear brims her bottom eyelid, clinging to her lashes.
It looks a lot like defeat.
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.
—him. His thumb gently parting her lips, brushing the wet stain across her skin. His green eyes holding hers captive. His hands...
...his hands on her knees, flooding her with burning warmth. Hypatia's nostrils flare, and the only sound in the room is her heavy breathing as every. fucking. inch of her skin reacts to the slow glide of his palms up her legs. A tactile shudder ripples through her muscles, dancing beneath his fingertips.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, fists batter against the closing door of her lucidity. A voice screams. Stop—s t o p h i m.
The door closes.
Her body softens, yields, sings with sensation from the mere brush of his hands. Hypatia's eyes haven't once slipped away from his, but she doesn't see him anymore—not really. Not for what he is.
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.
Slow warmth creeps into her thigh. Benign. Soothing in the way it massages away the lingering ache in her toned muscles. The other hand is more distracting. It teases her senses, skittering between her thighs and raising a line of goosebumps on her skin. Her hips shift reflexively—searching, yearning—but those fingers skim right past where she wants them most, drifting over each dip between her ribs. Hypatia leans into that touch as much as she's able, her singular focus on chasing a slowly rising high.
His thumb reaches the sensitive skin of her perky breast, arcing beneath the curve of her areola. A soft little gasp drifts from her parted lips—and then he flips the tables, tweaking her nipple harshly, and the sound rises sharply in speed and pitch. It's a noise of surprise, but not one of protest. The breathy sigh that follows, goaded out of her by the little rumble in Nalik's chest, sounds a lot like a moan.
She is nothing more now than a vessel craving pleasure, and he is the provider or withholder—all the power in his hands.
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.