Chapter 4 Naughty Master

-JULIA POV-

He knew my fears very well. He knew everything about me, seeing through my soul, my life, every single detail laid bare before him.

One of my greatest fears is the dark, especially in confined spaces. It might sound lame, but that's exactly what the basement was-a dark, oppressive cell.

He left me in here, and I don't know how long, but it's been long enough for me to sweat, cry, and scream. He despises my tears, so I know I'll be down here for quite a while.

No matter how much I cry, and scream, the darkness swallows each sound. In the pitch black, my mind plays cruel tricks, conjuring horrors that may or may not be real. The air is thick and damp, pressing in on me from all sides. Above all, I'm isolated and alone.

No matter how harshly my master treats me, I always feel safer with him next to me. His current absence pulls me back to a time when I was human, a time I never want to relive. Now, in this suffocating blackness, those memories merge with my reality, amplifying my terror.

I remembered the night I killed my mother. I hurt so much from being used by other men, that I told her I didn't want to do it anymore. She told me no and locked me in a closet. She always locked me in a closet when she wasn't pleased with me. She started doing it when I was three-years-old. I didn't like it when men came over to touch me and pay my mother for it. When I made a tantrum, she would lock me inside. When I was sixteen, she locked me in the closet, and then when she brought me out after hours because someone had paid for me for the night, I went to the kitchen after dressing up and I grabbed a knife. I didn't think twice, coming from behind her and stabbing her from the back, and when she laid flat on the ground with blood bleeding out, I stabbed her neck, leaving the knife in there. My father came into the room, as high as a kite as usual, and he called me all sort of names before covering his wife's dead body with a blanket and then dragging me to the man who paid to use me. As he used me, he choked the life out of me, and when my soul left my body, I met the Grim Reaper.

Master was the safest one I could ever be around. I don't trust anyone more than him, but that doesn't mean I fully trust him.

As you can see, he locked me in the basement.

I cried into my knees, curled up, the chains on my feet and wrists were cold against my body, nothing was warm and welcoming. Everything master did was as diabolical as his mind wanted it to be.

When I heard a click, I raised my head, my heart pounding with fear. The sound of the door unlocking sent a shiver down my spine. But then, light poured in, slicing through the darkness, and I saw my master descending the stairs. His presence, a silhouette against the brightness, brought relief to me.

He approached me, his footsteps echoing softly in the confined space. As he squatted down to my level, instinct took over. I reached out, desperate to feel his touch, to anchor myself in the present and dispel the memories of that awful closet. I needed to know I wasn't alone, that I wasn't trapped in my past fears. His being alone, even with all its complexity, was a lifeline in the suffocating darkness.

"Master."

I mumbled out as I nuzzled my head between his chest.

He pushed me away, his smirk visible even in the dim light. I cowered; the brief glimmer of hope extinguished. Shame and fear washed over me as I quickly knelt again, reminding myself of my place when I'm with him. It was a constant reminder of the power he held over me.

"I apologise, master."

I quiver out as I bow before him, anticipation and dread intertwining in my quivering form. He grabs my face abruptly, his fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to meet his stern gaze.

"Don't disappoint me next time, slave."

"Yes, master."

He unshackles me, and instead of telling me to get up and walk like normally, this time he carries me, and then puts me down when we're back upstairs.

"Go make dinner."

The only thing I ever made as human was cereal, and that's when I was putting a carton of milk and boxed Frosties together.

My naked body stands before him, trembling as I make an excuse, my head bowing down as my feet shuffle on the cold floor.

"I apologise master, but I do not know how to cook."

Besides, he never asked me to cook in 8 years. He was the one who always cooked all his own food, and it always smelled absolutely divine. I hated being a soul every time he made food, cakes, drinks, it tormented me that I couldn't eat or drink any of that.

Making excuses didn't go too well under this house. Whatever he demands, I must do, no matter what. So just because I told him the truth, he grabs my left nipple and pinches hard before twisting it, and the pain shoots through my body as a silent pleasure fills me.

"I didn't ask for an excuse, slave. Go change, then make dinner for me."

He releases my sore and erect nipple, his gaze still piercing me with those dark grey eyes.

"Now."

He commands, and I quickly make my way to the attic. I stayed in the attic.

I didn't have a closet or bed; just a small carpet to sleep on and a blanket, but it was mine-my very own room. It was a luxury I had never experienced before, and I would always cherish this tiny space of my own. It was just big enough to accommodate three of me lying down. I quickly pick up a set of my neatly folded clothes from the floor and dress myself. All my clothes were identical: a plain white tank top and a very short pleated white skirt.

I hurried downstairs to the kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of raw vegetables and meat, neatly arranged on the countertop beside a well-worn chopping board. There, standing with the weight of his presence, was master. His hands gripped a knife, its blade catching the light, his posture poised and purposeful.

"Come here, slave."

I approach him and stop inches away from him.

I cautiously approach him, stopping just inches away, feeling the weight of his presence. He raises the knife and traces it delicately around my face, sending a shiver down my spine. My heart races with fear, unsure of his intentions. Initially, I found being a soul a little odd, because my body was the same as when I was human. The only difference is, my body can't eat or drink, so whatever dinner I'll be making, will be for him. After all, if I do take a bite of any of this food on the countertop, I'll vomit it out with no control.

I watch him intently as he concentrates on the knife, a smile playing on his lips. The sharp edge grazing on my soft and supple skin, another reminder of his control over me, both physically and emotionally.

"I'll be instructing you what to do."

His smile widens.

"Every mistake you make..."

He doesn't continue, but I get his point when he presses the knife deeper into my skin, and I feel the burn, the opening cut he created, no blood comes out, but I can feel the tearing of my very soul, and it hurts more than a cut would when I was human.

"Get to work, slave."

He passes me the knife from the hilt, and I grasp it firmly.

"Try not to stab me like you did your mother."

He cackles after mentioning the reason I'm a damned soul.

"Mince the garlic."

His pose now demanding, but funnily enough, I didn't know how to mince. Don't I need a meat grinder for that? That's how I saw mincemeat being made on television. I don't tell him that though, because the obvious part is that the garlic needs to be cut.

I spot some garlic cloves, their papery exteriors proving stubborn as I struggle to peel them away. Finally, I reveal their pristine white and faintly yellowed interiors, smooth and fragrant. Gripping the knife tightly, I begin chopping the garlic into uneven bits, the rhythmic clinking of metal against wood filling the air as I work.

"Smaller."

I cut more, and for now he's pleased.

"String the French beans."

I looked back at him, seeing a small knife in his hands that he lets dance on his fingers.

"String them."

I didn't know what that meant at all. There are no strings on these French beans.

I inspect the vegetable again when I see his demeanour turn harder and stern. Yet I still can't find the string on the beans.

"I don't know, master."

I quivered out, and the next second I yelped, holding in the pain when he made a cut at my calf with his small knife. I felt my soul tear again.

"String the beans."

His voice turning irate.

I started to panic, and I wasn't sure anymore what to do. My hands just picked up the knife and cut the ends off the beans, but he wasn't pleased. I heard him sigh with so much disappointment.

He grabbed a French bean from the countertop, and silently showed me what he meant.

He slammed it back down on the countertop.

"String the beans."

I nervously gulped but did as he was telling me. He made it look easier than it seemed. I was snapping them off, but some of them didn't come clean off, and every time they didn't, he would cut at the length of my legs. Each one ensuing more pain than the last.

"Butter in pan, medium heat."

I move to the stove, doing as he says. I waited for every moment he would tell me what to do, fearful of the knife that might strike me. At some point, there would be another place he would have to cut, for the canvas on my legs was filling up.

Once the vegetables were done, he made me move on to the meat.

It was on the pan, and his knife was pressing against my back.

"If it's not medium rare...there'll be so much fun I can have with you and this knife."

I didn't even know there was stages to cooking meat, but I do remember all the times I kneeled by his side and watched him slice through that decadent piece of meat. So, I trusted what I've seen and smelled all these years with him.

I took it out of the pan when it felt right through my gut, and I plated it.

"Cut it through."

His voice an evil whisper at my ear, but I still took a steak knife and sliced it through. As I slice, his knife behind presses in deeper at the tailbone near my ass.

I see that the steak is what he normally eats, so I think I'm right, and he puts the knife away.

He inhales at my neck as he squeezes hard at my plump ass, and I lean deeper into his touch.

"Now you'll cook every dinner until your two years are up."

I sigh, and it accidentally slipped my lips that I did. My body betrayed me, because I didn't like this type of cooking. I don't think I like cooking at all, especially since I can't taste it.

He turns me around roughly, and I drop the knife at the sudden jolt he gives me.

He grips at my jaw, holding firm and roughly.

"Be appreciative, my little slave."

"Yes, master."

I quietly say it, and he smirks, pushing my face away. As he does, I feel a rush up my spine as he looks at me, and I can feel it. He's healing the wounds he gave me, and once I'm all healed, he commands me again.

"Go put it on the table. I'll slice you open the same way you did that steak, if you drop it."

I nervously nod.

"Yes, master."

Before I leave, he reaches into the depths of his long, black coat and produces a set of cold, iron shackles. With a deliberate, almost ritualistic precision, he clamps them onto my ankles. He always wears the same grim attire: a dark, knitted turtleneck sweater that hugs his form, a sweeping black coat that cascades down to his ankles, and impeccably tailored black slacks. His shoes are perpetually polished to a mirror-like sheen, catching the light in a way that makes them almost blinding.

He lets me take the plate of food I made-or should I say we made? I make my way to the dining room, careful not to drop the plate as my feet waddles a little with the heavy chains.

As I enter the dining room and place the plate on the table, a sinking feeling washes over me-I've forgotten the utensils. Dread knots in my stomach; he'll surely be displeased. Determined to fix my mistake, I spin on my heel to rush back to the kitchen, only to collide with something solid. The impact sends me stumbling backward, my hip crashing against the table's edge. I quickly check the plate-it remains undisturbed, a small relief amid my rising anxiety.

I turn to see what-or who-I've bumped into, and my breath catches in my throat. It's not master, nor anyone familiar. Panic seizes me, and I scream, attempting to flee, but the shackles around my ankles betray me. I fall to the floor, scrambling back into a corner, desperate for the cold, unyielding walls to offer some semblance of protection. My body trembles, and I scream without end, a cacophony of fear, until he speaks.

"Where is Reaper?"

His voice cuts through the chaos, and my mind wanders on the man in front of me.

He looked so majestic. Sure, my master was handsome to some extent, but the man in front of me was a different kind of handsome. The man has striking white-blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a strong jawline. His intense gaze and well-defined features give him a confident, mysterious, and alluring appearance. Yet there's something about him, a smell, he smells like roses. I can smell him from here.

But who was he? Why was he here? We never have guest in the house, ever. Master tells me it's because he wants to come home where it's just me and him and no one else. He said he wasn't liked by many, and he didn't like many. Which to be fair, I can see why not many beings would like master.

"I asked you a question."

His gaze turned darker as he approached me. I couldn't scream anymore, but the tears were rolling down my face uncontrollably. I desperately wiped them off, because if master found me crying, he might put me in the basement again.

In that moment, I heard a familiar voice.

"Rolio, I made it very clear; no one is to come to my home."

The man with icy blonde hair, was named Rolio? Well, I watch this so-called Rolio turn around to face my master.

"Why is this soul here?"

Rolio pointed at me, and I was intrigued now. I was gifted to master 8 years ago, doing everything and anything he asked of me. Was I not meant to be here?

I watch master shrug.

"Unchain her."

Rolio commanded, and I have never seen or even heard of someone telling my master what to do. There was no such thing as bossing him around or talking back to him.

"She's mine."

My master made his claim, and to prove it further, he told me to kneel.

"Kneel, slave."

I did as he asked, keeping my head bowed down.

"Look at me."

I look up at my master and see them both. Their eyes lock in a fierce stare, charged with tension and hostility.

"Who do you belong to?"

"You, master."

He smirks at Rolio, but this man has too much guts to even give a flying fuck.

He grabs my arm, his grip an iron clad.

"Release her, she's not yours."

For the first time, I hear my master's voice shake with a heavy, urgent need. His command is powerful, one that would compel immediate obedience from me, but Rolio remains indifferent, unconcerned by the bruises he's already inflicting on me. I continue to kneel, bound by my master's unspoken order, my mind racing with uncertainty about the nature of their relationship.

"She's not yours either. This soul belongs to hell."

The revelation shocks me, that I turn to look at my master, my eyes popping with stark terror. But the revelations don't stop there, Rolio spills like a morning bird.

"She was not chosen as a slave to be gifted to us, Grim Reapers."

I looked up at the undeniably sexy man, and register that he too, was a Grim Reaper, like my master.

I knew master could be naughty at times, but what exactly did he do this time that involved me?