Dog on a leash

“You’re a dick,” Kaël mutters, the words low and venom-laced as if they hurt to speak, rasping through the crackle of his parched throat. It isn't a shout—more a curse forced from between clenched teeth, shaped by defiance and fatigue.

Arran doesn't even blink. He keeps his eyes forward on the road, fingers loosely draped around the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that betrays the cruelty coiled beneath his calm. “Aww, lucky for you I’m not a cunt like you, little fucker,” he replies, his voice drawling with mockery, the threat tucked into his words like a knife under silk. “Now get your shoes off—or I’ll come back there and tear them off myself. Feet and all.”

Kaël opens his mouth, instinctively ready to snap something vile in return—but something stops him. A sliver of metal—gleaming under the dash light—catches his eye near the steering wheel. A blade. Short, clean, wicked. Close enough to use in an instant, but far enough from Kaël’s bound hands to remind him how utterly helpless he is. He presses his lips together, jaw clenched tight, and swallows down the insult clawing at his throat.

The silence that follows is heavy. Suffocating. And still, that maddening sensation spreads beneath his skin—like oil seeping between muscle and bone. It’s not in his head. It can’t be. He feels it. Crawling. Squirming. Slippery little bodies writhing in the seams of his clothing, against the curves of his ribs and along the hollow of his spine. Maggots. He’s certain of it. And yet—every time he looks—there’s nothing.

A quiet, desperate groan leaks from his throat as he grinds his back harder against the car seat, trying in vain to find relief through friction. His hands, still bound cruelly at the wrists, twitch uselessly in his lap. The Stitcher hadn’t taken chances. Not after what Kaël tried back in the room.

In the mirror above, two storm-colored eyes shift their attention to him. “What the hell are you doing?” Arran asks, tone colder than steel but lacking its earlier bite—curious, maybe even vaguely amused.

Kaël’s breath hitches, his limbs taut with frustrated energy. “I swear… they’re in my clothes,” he hisses, sharp and low, his voice strained. Without waiting for permission, he hikes one stiff leg toward his bound hands, awkward and clumsy. Every joint protests, and his flexibility, usually something he prided himself on, has been dulled by days cramped inside a cage.

Arran watches. Not mocking this time. Simply observing.

“There’s nothing on you,” he says after a pause, his voice stripped of cruelty. “But you can take your shirt off if you need to check.”

Kaël snorts quietly—dry and brittle like leaves in winter—and leans forward just enough to start dragging one sneaker off using the edge of the other. The dull thump as it hits the floor resounds unnaturally loud in the quiet car. No radio. No conversation. Just the hum of tires and the ache of exhaustion.

“I’m not stripping for you,” he mutters.

Arran’s lips curl into a smile reflected in the mirror—part sardonic, part sinister. “Oh, but you would,” he murmurs. “I’m sure of it.”

Kaël doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply leans back, the leather seat offering no comfort, no softness—just cold resistance against his raw, hypersensitive skin. His frame tenses, as if even contact with air is too much. “Why? What gives you that idea?” His tone is guarded now, hollow.

Arran doesn’t answer. But something passes through the silence—an unspoken thing. A knowing. A memory Kaël doesn’t realize he shared. Did he stare too long the first time they met? Did something in him—desperate, vulnerable—betray itself?

“I wouldn’t force you,” Arran says eventually, quiet but certain. “I may kill terrible people… but I wouldn’t force them into anything.”

Kaël blinks. That surprises him. He doesn’t believe it, not really, but something in Arran’s voice makes it hard to argue. He nods—small, cautious—even though the other man isn’t looking. But Arran notices. Of course he does. Kaël curls tighter, knees pulled up defensively to his chest. He’s small. Foldable. Forgettable. He wraps his arms around himself like a shield, the only comfort the fragile illusion of safety.

“You won’t be killed,” Arran adds, after a moment. “Not immediately, at least.”

The words sink into the silence like a stone into water. No splash. Just a slow, cold descent.

“I figured as much,” Kaël murmurs, eyes heavy, head resting atop his knees as he stares out the window. Thousands of lights smear across the glass, blurred by grime and fatigue. “Are you going to stitch my eyes and mouth shut? Let me die like that? Slowly?”

There’s no answer.

The car keeps moving.

The lights outside blur and melt into one another, and Kaël loses track of time again. Has it been half an hour? More? His concept of time collapsed days ago—somewhere between the hunger, the pain, and the fear.

“No,” Arran says finally, abrupt.

Kaël doesn’t react. He’s too far gone into a daze, body trembling slightly in the dark. But Arran continues anyway.

“My name is Arran, if you wanted to know.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Kaël mutters, voice barely audible.

“And I don’t recall giving a shit, pup,” Arran replies. The nickname is laced with sarcasm, but it lands bitter—too personal. Too knowing.

Kaël’s stomach growls—soft, embarrassed. He exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “Keep calling me ‘pup’ and I’ll die before we get wherever you’re dragging me.”

Arran laughs, a sharp, mirthless sound. “See if I care.” But he glances back. Just once. A flick of his eyes toward the curled figure in the back seat. “You’re short,” he adds.

Kaël doesn’t respond. Not this time. His breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut. For a second, Arran thinks he’s faking it—but the stillness is real. No more squirming. No more whispers of worms on his skin. Just quiet.

Arran exhales and turns his eyes back to the road, but a flash of bright red and snow white catches his attention.

KFC.

A glowing sign like a beacon in the dark. A siren’s call of grease and sodium.

He taps the turn signal. Fuck it. The kid needs food. And so does he. Hell, even the metaphorical corpse that is Kaël probably deserves one last meal.

He pulls into the dimly lit lot, choosing a shadowed space away from prying eyes. He locks the doors and steps out, calm and collected, brushing wrinkles from his coat like he’s just another man getting dinner.

Inside, warmth hits him like a wave—too bright, too clean. A woman behind the counter sees him and lights up instantly. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger as she leans forward with a breathy smile. “Hi, sir. What can I get you?”

He returns the smile politely—detached, uninterested. “Two Streetwise Twos, a chicken burger with fries, one wrap, two Pepsis, and a water.”

Her fingers dance across the touchscreen. “Got it. Will that be all, sir?” She leans in, lashes fluttering. Inviting. Hopeful.

He nods once and steps aside, not unkind, but unreachable.

Outside, his eyes find the car again. He narrows his gaze. The silhouette that had been upright moments ago now slumps sideways, disappearing behind the seat.

“Sir?” the girl at the counter says, handing him the bag. “Order’s ready.”

He glances at her, surprised. “Already?”

“It’s been ten minutes,” she replies with a soft giggle. “Fresh and hot. Hope you enjoy…”

She leans in again, beginning, “I’m getting off soon—”

But Arran cuts her off gently. “You’re a stunning woman,” he lies smoothly, “but unfortunately, I already have someone.”

Her smile falters. Hands fidget. “Oh…”

“And a woman like you? You deserve better than someone like me,” he adds, voice low and tragic. “You’re a supermodel. I’m just… second place.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. No words come.

“So I hope you find your happiness,” he finishes with a final, charming smile. “But I’ve got my own to get back to.”

Before she can recover, he’s gone.

He returns to the car. Kaël is sprawled awkwardly across the back seat, arms curled up beneath him like a dead thing. Arran says nothing. Just slips into the driver’s seat and sets the bag and drinks down carefully beside him, praying nothing spills.

He glances at the calmer body in the back feeling curious. He wants to wake him and offer food ,but doubts it will be the best choice. He was fast asleep and now and needed it along with food ,but will be given it as soon as he wakes.

The engine growls to life.

Kaël whimpers at the sound, small and pitiful, but he doesn’t wake.

Arran makes sure he is still comfortable before slowly getting ready to leave.

He know when they arrive at the safe house, he won't have that luxury so he will give him this peace.

At least until he needs to meet the new player in their game...

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