Chapter 3 What is love

Mikhail's pov

"Shh, it's okay," the servant whispered softly, their tone almost soothing as they led me to a soft, cushioned surface. "You're safe now. Just breathe, okay? Breathe with me."

I tried to focus, to follow their instructions, but the heat inside me was overwhelming. I was burning, my skin like fire, and it made my entire body feel heavy and unresponsive. The servant settled me down onto what felt like a plush bed, their hands still on me, checking my temperature with a worried frown.

"Don't worry, Señor," they murmured, brushing a damp cloth over my forehead in an attempt to cool me down. Their touch was gentle, but their hands shook as they moved to soothe my fevered skin. "I'm here. I'm going to help you."

My mouth was dry, and I felt as though I hadn't tasted water in days. The emptiness in my stomach was unbearable, a gnawing ache that didn't stop. I wanted to speak, to ask for help, but the words wouldn't come. I could only lie there, exhausted and weak, hoping they would understand.

"You've been in that closet for too long," the servant continued, their voice low but steady, as though speaking in gentle reassurance to themselves as much as to me. "What he did to you... It's not right. You shouldn't have to go through this."

I felt the sadness in their words, the empathy. It was strange to hear it, especially in this place, from someone who wasn't Colton. Did they know what I had been enduring? Did they care?

"I'm sorry," the servant said, their voice breaking slightly as they wiped my forehead again. "I should have known. I should have done something sooner."

The feeling of someone-anyone-caring, reaching out to help, was foreign to me. It almost felt unreal. I didn't know who this servant was, but their presence was a welcome relief. It was something good in a world that had been nothing but cruel to me.

"Stay with me, okay?" they whispered, their voice soft but filled with determination. "I'll get you something to drink. Just rest. I'll be back soon, Señor."

I tried to nod, but my body refused to cooperate. The heat was still there, making my vision swim and my body tremble. The servant's touch lingered for a moment longer, as if they weren't quite ready to leave me alone, as if they were worried I might slip away into the feverish haze again. Then, with one last soft stroke of my hair, they got up and left the room, their footsteps retreating but still carrying the promise of something I had longed for-compassion.

The servant's presence was like a flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness that had surrounded me for so long. As they left, I could feel my body weakly sagging against the soft sheets, the cool air from the open window only slightly easing the fire that raged within me. My breathing was labored, shallow as I tried to force air into my burning lungs. Every part of me ached, from the bruises that still marked my skin to the aching, hollow emptiness inside me.

It felt like a lifetime before the servant returned, but I wasn't sure how much time had passed. My vision swam, the light in the room spinning around me in dizzying circles. But then the soft sound of their footsteps returned, and the door opened again. The air shifted, and I could feel their presence filling the room with a sense of care, like someone had truly seen me-not just as a possession or a thing to be controlled-but as a person who mattered.

"I'm back," the servant said softly, their voice carrying the same worried tone as before. There was a tray in their hands, filled with a glass of water and a small plate of food. They moved quickly, but with a quiet reverence, setting the tray beside me on the bed. "You're burning with fever, Señor. You need to drink this, and then I'll help you eat. You need strength."

I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't respond. Every movement was sluggish, and the pain that shot through me when I tried to lift myself was enough to make me gasp. The servant must have seen my struggle, because they immediately knelt beside me, placing one hand under my back to help me sit up, their touch gentle but firm, as though they were afraid I might break if they were too rough.

"Here," they said softly, lifting the glass of water to my lips. "Just drink slowly. I'll be right here. Don't try to do too much."

The cool water touched my lips, and I drank greedily, savoring the relief it gave my parched throat. The servant held the glass steady, guiding it to me as I took slow, careful sips. I could feel their warmth, their proximity, their unwavering attention on me, as though I was something worth protecting-even though I didn't believe I was.

Once the water was gone, the servant set the glass down and looked at me with a gentle expression, but there was still concern etched on their face. "How do you feel now?" they asked, their voice soft, almost like a whisper. "Better, I hope. I'll get you some food soon."

I tried to respond, but my throat was still too dry, too sore to make words. All I could do was give them a weak nod, my gaze meeting theirs for the first time. I was too weak to speak, but I could see the sympathy in their eyes, the kindness that made the suffocating world feel a little more bearable.

The servant stayed with me, watching over me as I lay back down, the heat still making my skin burn but less intense now, thanks to the water. I could feel my eyelids growing heavier, my body craving sleep more than anything. But I didn't want to close my eyes. I didn't want to miss out on the rare moment of peace.

"Sleep," the servant murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. "You need it. Don't worry, Señor. I won't leave you. I'll be here when you wake."

I closed my eyes, unable to keep them open any longer, and let the darkness take over. But even as I drifted into unconsciousness, the servant's voice lingered in my mind, the promise of safety in a world that had never felt safe before.

The warmth from the bed and the gentle care from the servant had lulled me into a false sense of comfort, but the moment I smelled that familiar, suffocating minty scent, my heart dropped. It was Colton. His presence filled the room, overwhelming everything else, and I could feel my body stiffen in fear.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing, but it was impossible. The rapid thumping of my heart echoed in my chest, my muscles trembling as I lay there, unable to move. I could hear him approach, his steps slow and deliberate, and then his cold voice cut through the stillness like a blade.

"Who told you to get out of the closet?" Colton asked, his tone devoid of any warmth, but thick with authority. There was an undercurrent of anger in his words, the kind that sent a chill down my spine.

I desperately tried to move my hands, to form a sign to communicate, but my trembling fingers betrayed me. My body refused to cooperate, and my throat tightened with panic. I could barely control my breath, let alone sign something coherent. The words stuck in my mind, but they never made it past my lips or hands. I couldn't tell him anything. I couldn't explain the kindness, the relief, the way someone had cared for me-something Colton never had.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide with fear, my lips quivering. I tried to shake my head, silently pleading for him to understand, but the terror that clenched at my gut made it hard to think. I couldn't even bear to make eye contact for too long, the intensity of his gaze too suffocating.

"Speak, Mikhail," he demanded, his voice suddenly softer but colder, as though his patience had run thin. His towering figure loomed over me, and I felt small-so small, so insignificant under his gaze. "Why are you not in the closet where you belong?"

The room seemed to close in on me, the walls pressing in with every passing second. My chest felt tight, and all I wanted was to escape, but the reality was-there was nowhere to go. Colton was everywhere.

I finally managed to pull my hand into some semblance of a sign, but the trembling made it almost impossible to communicate what I needed to. I signed, shaking, "I didn't leave... I couldn't stay there... I was sick..."

His eyes darkened as he watched me struggle, his expression unreadable for a moment, but then he sneered, his lip curling. "Sick?" he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "You're weak. Pathetic."

He took a step closer, looming over me even more, his shadow falling over me like a weight I couldn't escape. His scent seemed to invade every inch of the room, thickening the air, making it hard to breathe. I tried to push myself further into the bed, but there was no escaping him.

"I told you-" Colton started, his voice low and dangerous, "-you belong to me. You don't get to leave when you want, or go wherever you please. You're nothing. You're mine." His words were harsh, biting, each syllable cutting deeper than the last.

I felt the tears welling up, but I refused to let them fall. I couldn't show him that weakness. But the more he spoke, the more suffocating his presence became, and the harder it was to resist breaking down.

"I don't care if you're sick. I don't care if you're weak. You will obey me, Mikhail." His voice was a low growl now, his hand reaching out as if to grab me, to pull me back into submission.

I flinched, unable to stop the instinctive reaction, my body trying to shrink away from his touch. But Colton's grip on power-on me-was unyielding. And I knew, in that moment, that I would never be free from him.

To be continue