First Bath

A soft, involuntary sigh slips from Kaël’s parted lips as his battered body sinks into the scalding water, the heat licking up his sides like wildfire against frostbitten skin. It’s too hot—water meant for waking the dead or boiling a man alive—but he doesn’t flinch. Not really. Instead, his limbs go slack, melting into the liquid warmth with the desperation of someone who hasn’t felt comfort in years. Steam coils up around his bruised shoulders, blurring the edges of the small bathroom into dreamlike haze. It’s too quiet.

Without thinking, his head dips beneath the surface, muffling the world. He stays there for a moment, ears ringing, submerged. Any invisible thing that might’ve crept into his matted hair—fleas, dust, lice, curses—would be drowned in this boiling baptism. Better to kill it all. Burn it clean. Maybe even burn away a part of himself.

Then, a sound—like a bubble rising from nowhere.

A low chuckle slices through the quiet and rips Kaël from the warm silence. His body jerks upward, water spilling off his skin like a flood. The sting of the heat returns instantly, sharp and biting, like needles dragging across raw nerves. But he doesn’t care. His gaze snaps toward the source of the voice.

"I did tell you there was nothing in your hair." Euan’s voice is lazy, teasing, the kind of amusement that scrapes at Kaël’s bones like dull knives. He leans against the locked bathroom door as if he owns the room, as if he’s not the one intruding. His arms are folded, his posture effortless. He doesn’t flinch when Kaël glares. That glint in his eyes is both fond and wicked.

His hair is lighter than Arran’s—brown, with subtle auburn strands catching the light—but the structure of their faces bears unmistakable resemblance. Both are handsome, sharp-jawed and expressive in ways that shouldn't belong to people capable of such cruelty. Their beauty is unfair, something carved from marble and stained with blood.

Kaël tears his eyes away before his mind betrays him—before he starts imagining all the wrong things. He’s been isolated too long. Everything in his head has begun to rot.

One of those thoughts involved stabbing Arran in the dick with a rusty fork. The image flits across his mind like a moth circling a flame—satisfying, vivid. He’d pierce him like a sausage on a summer grill. Twist. Tear.

"Don’t worry, I won’t let him in," Euan murmurs, casually peeling that thought from Kaël’s skull as if reading it. His voice is gentler now, almost coaxing. Kaël doesn’t even flinch this time. He merely nods, accepting the promise. It’s not reassuring, but it’s something.

He scans the room again, a habit burned into muscle memory—mapping exits, assessing threats. The door’s blocked. The window’s laughably small—he wouldn’t be able to squeeze his hips through it even if he broke every rib. No weapons in sight, not even a toothbrush. Just steam and tile and a predator smiling at him.

"How long?" Kaël asks suddenly, surprising himself.

The question slices the air like a blade. It’s quiet, soft—his voice sounds alien even to his own ears, papery and unused. But it hits Euan like a rock to the head.

The younger man startles, then crosses the room in two strides. He drops to his knees in front of the tub, hands reaching out with a strange reverence. His fingers cup Kaël’s jaw like he’s holding a baby bird, fragile and fluttering.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, eyes wide and alight with fascination. “Your voice is so soft.”

Kaël stiffens, lips pressed thin, but Euan doesn’t stop. He tilts Kaël’s head, inspecting him like a piece of rare art on auction. His thumbs linger just beneath the hollow of Kaël’s cheekbones, and his gaze—hungry, curious—drifts downward. To the shadowed line where the water hides his naked body.

Heat floods Kaël’s face in a violent wave. “You fucking pervert!” he snarls, twisting away, water sloshing. “You’re worse than him!”

Euan yelps as Kaël’s sudden motion sends a splash over the edge. His knees slip on the wet tiles and he falls back with a loud thud, the seat of his pajama pants soaking instantly. A dark stain blooms like ink on fabric. "Oof—fuck—okay, maybe I deserved that."

But he laughs. Loud and unashamed.

Kaël scowls, chest heaving, shoulders burning from tension. He watches Euan carefully, half expecting him to pounce like a feral cat. But instead, those jewel-bright eyes look up at him with something else. Not pity. Not cruelty. Admiration, maybe. Or something stranger.

“Don’t compare me to that prick,” Euan grins, sitting up and resting his arms on the rim of the tub, chin propped in his hand. “Besides, I’m only stating the truth.”

Kaël glares, then drops his gaze to his palms—pale and trembling against the bathwater. "You didn’t answer my question."

Euan’s head tilts. His grin lingers, but it softens. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, no trace of jest in his voice. “Arran wouldn’t have brought you here if he wanted you dead. Maybe you won him over with your tragic little accident and—”

A sudden voice howls from below. "You asshole! Don’t you dare say that’s why I brought him here!"

It’s Arran. Furious. Humiliated. The sound of a man whose pride is bleeding out on the floor.

Both men in the bathroom pause, then simultaneously imagine the same thing—Arran, face flushed beet red, hands clenched in frustration, avoiding eye contact like a blushing schoolgirl.

Kaël can’t help it.

“Fuck off, will you!” he shouts toward the door, his voice echoing louder this time, sharper, drenched in venom and fatigue.

He slumps back into the water. The heat now feels bearable, even comforting again. The air has changed—thicker with steam and tension, but he doesn’t care. It’s strange, Euan being in here with him, but not terrifying. After all, who the hell would leave a killer alone with unlocked doors?

His head dips back until his ears are submerged again. The sounds muffle. Everything fades. Only the rhythmic thud of his heart remains, like soft drums echoing in the deep. He focuses on that—on the way his pulse feels stronger here, like it’s real again.

Then the door clicks open again.

A scent rushes in—thick, greasy, warm. His nostrils flare before his eyes open. Chicken. Fried. The smell is unmistakable. Crisp golden skin. Moist meat beneath. A phantom of memory claws its way into his brain—late-night dinners he never had, hunger that’s never quite left.

When he sits up, blinking, Euan is standing before him with two boxes of KFC.

Kaël stares, stunned.

“Don’t worry,” Euan says smoothly, lifting one of the boxes just a bit higher. “You’ll have your meal. I noticed you haven’t been fed in a while.”

He doesn’t move to hand the box over. But he doesn’t pull it back either. It dangles there like a lure, tempting and suspicious.

Kaël narrows his eyes. “Why would you offer me food?”

Euan taps a finger against his chin—playfully. He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches. His head tilts. His features sharpen in the dim light, cheekbones casting soft shadows.

“Well, normally we wouldn’t,” he says at last. “We’d gut you like a fish, fill your belly with photographs of your victims, sew you up and display you in the living room.”

Kaël doesn’t blink. His gaze is hard, unreadable.

“But,” Euan continues, “from Arran’s actions… and my feelings… we’d rather keep you.”

Kaël laughs. It’s low and bitter.

“You’re mad,” he says coldly, eyeing the chicken. “You think I’d become some kind of pet over a few pieces of dead bird?”

Euan smiles. His fingers reach forward again, lightly tracing the edge of Kaël’s arm beneath the water, slow and deliberate. His touch feels like a test.

“Not just bird,” he whispers. “Potatoes too.”

Kaël stares at him.

"And besides," Euan adds, voice dropping to a purr, "your nickname does have ‘dog’ in it. Wouldn’t it be fun to see you with a collar?”

He lifts something from his pocket. There’s a metallic clink, a small jingle. The glint of red leather.

A collar.

Euan dangles it in front of him, grinning. “You could snuggle at our feet, if you’d like.”

Kaël rolls his eyes—slowly, dramatically. But he doesn’t look away from the food. His body’s giving in, eyes heavy. The warmth makes him soft. The scent makes him weak.

"You forget," he murmurs, voice low, "dogs bite."

A hand slips behind his neck. Pulls. His head is gently tilted back until he’s staring straight into Euan’s green eyes. There’s something primal there. Possessive. Hungry. Calculating.

“I’m well aware of your signature, little pup,” Euan says softly, breath ghosting across Kaël’s skin. “But you forget—bad dogs get punished.”

Kaël’s entire body goes still. That chill—the old one, the one from the cage—creeps up his spine again, curling around his lungs like smoke. Is the threat for his past? Or for now? Or both?

He’ll find out.

Eventually.

“Fine,” Kaël breathes, voice trembling but sharp. “I’ll bite. But does that mean I get to eat and sleep?”

Euan smiles wider, eyes gleaming like stained glass.

“Of course,” he says warmly. “But not before I give you your present.”

And with a soft clink, the collar swings between them again.

Kaël’s lips curl into a matching smirk. A slow, dangerous grin. His eyes meet Euan’s and hold them.

The game has started.

And neither of them intends to lose...

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