Chapter Text
───────༺ 𓆩✉𓆪 ༻───────
By order of his Royal Highness Prince Allira Salo, Viktor R. Cain of the Village of Zaun has been invited to appear in the Royal Court on the first of Neverember to celebrate the Promising of a new consort.
He is to bring no guests, and arrive in best dress in respect of His Royal Highness. When arriving in the city of Piltover, he will meet with an escort at the gate that will direct him to the palace.
A great honor has been bestowed upon your house this day. The prince looks forward to having guests from across the kingdom to celebrate the sacred occasion of The Promising, and witness the anointment of a new future consort.
─────── 𓆩✉𓆪 ───────
Mother,
It appears that I will not be returning from my summons to the Royal Court, as I have been promised to Prince Salo to be bonded in sacred marriage during the celebration of his coronation next year. As of tonight, my purification ritual has been completed and I am His Promised to the kingdom.
Do not weep for me, mother. I wish not to think of you in mourning when I remember you. It is a great honor to be lifted to such noble status, and I have to hope that it will bring honor to you in turn.
As is tradition, I am not to be seen by the public eye now that I am promised to our future king. The Court has kindly reminded me that such scandal would tarnish me in the eyes of the Gods, and I would no longer be of use to them. I remind you of this mother, because to go looking for me, to seek me out, would be a foolish errand.
Be patient, have hope. When the next Flowering arrives, after the Bitter Season has passed, I will be the Royal Consort. Although His Majesty The King Allira Salo will be my voice, I will trust he has the kindness in his heart to invite you to the palace and gift us the honor of seeing one another again.
I am told that a member of the royal guard is to deliver this message personally. I have no doubt that they have done me the kindness of reviewing my message for errors in formality, due to the sudden nature of my nobility. We are under the protective watch of the future King himself, and must not forget ourselves even in the perceived privacy of the written word.
With my deepest love,
Viktor
─────── 𓆩♔𓆪 ───────
Viktor takes the walk back to his chambers slowly. It’s a hypnotic pace, amplified by the repeated step, step, tap of his uneven gait, assisted by a simple cane – one of his only remaining belongings from home.
He is not alone – never alone now – always accompanied by a singular knight to escort him through the palace. It’s a reminder of his captivity, that he is welcome here and burdened with great honor, yet cannot leave. For the next several months, the members of the royal court and those that work and reside on the grounds are the only ones allowed to lay eyes on him.
Until Prince Salo takes the throne, and Viktor is named Consort, he will stay hidden away from sight. The life he once knew is long gone, his mother’s cottage a speck on the horizon growing smaller as the days go by.
All of the halls in the palace look the same. The architecture is mostly stonework, with curved archways contrasting sharp corners. Tapestries and portraits cover the walls in dark maroons and greens with gilded edges. Viktor only knows he’s reached the right doorway when his armored escort turns and opens the wide wooden doors.
There’s a portrait beside the door that he hadn’t noticed previously. It portrays a crowned woman with long blonde hair swirling around her in elegant brushstrokes. Viktor notes this newfound landmark and then turns to bow at the man patiently holding the door.
“Thank you, eh,” Viktor winces, stopping just past the threshold of his chambers. “What was your name again?”
“Jayce,” the knight replies. “We met last night, your grace.”
Last night. Of course, Viktor knows that, but if this Jayce had been present for the barbaric purification ritual, he would understand the lapse of memory.
“You will have to excuse me. I am still adjusting.” Viktor presses two fingers to his temple and then waves them away, brushing their air as if his persistent headache would leave him that simply.
“Of course, your grace.” Jayce nods.
He’s dressed differently compared to the previous two days. Viktor might have forgotten his name, but he hadn’t forgotten the ornate full plate armor, gilded in excess, that stood outside of his room the night after The Promising. It was likely ceremonial for the occasion; he can now piece that together.
That means the set of armor from last night – gleaming, fresh-polished silver and a white silk scarf wrapped around Jayce’s head in place of a helmet – was an acknowledgement of his purification. Viktor remembers the stark white fabric that decorated the interior of the House of Gods during the ritual, a perfect match.
Now, Jayce is quite casual in comparison. His dark hair is combed neatly back, with only a few unnoticed strays falling across his handsome face. His breastplate is secured with leather buckles over his tunic, significantly less shiny than his previous attire. Still, an impressive halberd stands in his grasp, as tall as he is and no doubt sharp enough to cut down enemies.
That is the purpose of his presence, Viktor reminds himself, to kill anyone that tries to lay a hand on me. He wonders if Jayce has ever had to use the weapon, or if it’s mostly for show. He does not look particularly battle-worn, besides an old scar interrupting his right brow.
“Do you stand outside my door all night, Jayce?” Viktor allows himself this one curiosity tonight.
Jayce seems taken aback by the question. “Yes, your grace, it is my sworn oath to protect you from harm.”
And gods forbid anyone lay eyes upon me. Or touch me and tarnish my precious chastity.
Viktor does not say that part aloud. He just hums instead and pretends to be satisfied with Jayce’s response.
“Good night then, Jayce.”
“Good night, your grace.”
The door closes gently and Viktor can hear the polearm of the halberd hit the stone floor, standing in place.
Your grace. It’s still a strange pair of words to be tossed in Viktor’s direction. He dare not waver in his confidence though. He likes to think he’s done well so far; his wit is his most valuable tool in this new environment. Earning the respect and trust of the court will be essential to his survival for–
For the rest of his life.
There’s a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach when he allows himself to take in that fact, to process what a lifetime of servitude to the crown truly means.
…My body, given to you,
My voice, spoken from your mouth,
My life, given freely,
I promise to thee…
Viktor’s own words from the Promising echo in his own mind. The horror. To give freely when the alternative is a cruel death, unspoken but assured.
Salo may not have the throne yet, but the Queen who raised him was especially ruthless. When a Noxian spy was discovered within her closest crownsguard, she held a public execution. Not just for the one spy, but the other six knights in her inner circle as well, to root out the enemy’s influence in case it wasn’t an isolated finding.
Viktor does not expect the prince to deviate from her example. Violence is all he knows.
He ponders this while shrugging off his velvet coat – somehow tailored accurately to his thin frame even without a fitting – and loosening the ties on his tunic, letting the fabric unfold and expose the moles on his collar and sternum.
A strong knock at the door and Jayce enters again, startling Viktor from his thoughts. This time, the knight stands taller, remaining stoic and avoiding direct gaze. Formal.
“Miss Medarda is here to see you. Shall I let her in?”
This name captures Viktor’s attention. Medarda is the name of the crown’s High Mage. If the rumors are true, she is a rare wielder of restorative and protective magic. When the royal court was attacked several years ago, the bards sang songs about her bravery in saving the prince’s life – although no official royal statement was ever published on the matter.
“Yes Jayce, thank you. I will see her.” Viktor nods, pulling at the strings of his tunic in an attempt to look more presentable.
When Jayce reappears in the stone doorway, a cloaked figure is standing beside him. The material of it is dark, meant to conceal the wearer in shadow, but is still woven from fine fabric with golden embellishments stitched into the hem.
The figure pulls the wide, shadowed hood from their head and lets it hang over her shoulders, revealing a striking woman with gold markings across her face and neck, like metal embedded in skin. The air hums with potential in her presence, and Viktor can taste something electric on his tongue.
Magic.
“Your grace,” the mage bows, long braids falling past her shoulders, adorned with jewelry.
Viktor stands, suddenly panicking and trying to remember the formalities he had so carefully studied before arriving here. “Your grace-”
“Lady.” She smiles warmly. If she’s taken offense to the slip-up, she does not show it. “Grace is a title reserved for the royal family, or those to be.” She nods pointedly at Viktor. “I am of my own nobility. You may call me Mel. No need for titles in the privacy of your chambers. I’m sure you spoke freely in Zaun.”
“It is an honor to be here,” Viktor parrots, a phrase of neutrality he’s fallen back on too often in his short time here. “Proper titles are no difficulty on my part, my lady, I assure you.”
“You will do well here. Your trust is not easily gained, and you are smarter for it.” Mel’s eyes gleam with interest, and Viktor notices glittering freckles catching the light of the sconces on the nearby wall.
Jayce is still standing at the open door, waiting, a silent offer to remain on watch in the chamber’s interior.
Viktor nods to him. “You are dismissed, Jayce.”
Jayce nods and takes his leave.
“What is the reason for your visit, my lady?”
“I would like to offer you a gift.” She waits to respond until the door has closed, leaving the two of them in solitude. “Pardon my asking, but you are of chosen name, are you not?”
Of Chosen Name. A title Viktor did not expect to hear in this place. The last time he heard it was from his mother’s lips on the morning of his departure to Piltover:
You make me proud, my son, Viktor of Chosen Name.
It is a title reserved for those closest to him. His family, his dearest friends, his lovers.
It is not particularly uncommon to change one’s title from lady to lord, or even liege, but to ask such a question on first meeting is considered impolite. Even in Zaun. A stranger, like this mysterious Mel Medarda, would be expected not to comment on such a private matter.
It was discussed at The Promising, between him and Salo, but that was when Viktor was just a commoner being questioned by the heir to the throne. It seemed natural for the prince to inquire about his anatomical functions, given that it would dictate the choosing of an heir after their union. Blood is of little value to the throne these days, but it does ease the process to produce an heir naturally if the ruling body is able.
“That is correct,” Viktor answers simply.
Mel produces a small, teardrop-shaped vial from her robe. The liquid inside is grey, but shifts into pale rainbows in the light. Viktor racks his brain for what this could possibly be, but comes up with nothing except that maybe she’s trying to poison him.
“This is a potion that many nobility of chosen name have imbibed. It is made from the blood of changelings, so it is costly, and only individuals well-practiced in arcane arts can brew it properly. I dare not speak of its physical effects in front of you, your grace, for it would be considered quite crude.” She places the vial in Viktor’s palm, and then slides a folded parchment beneath.
“Crude?” Viktor blinks, the glass cold in his hand. She is impossible to read, and he still hasn’t decided the meaning of this gesture.
“You are His Promised. Making such… alterations to your body could be considered treason on my part. Not to mention the resources I have allocated to procure it for you,” she says plainly.
The idea is admittedly enticing. How often has he scrutinized himself in front of the mirror, imagining sharper angles where the soft curves are?
“That is a serious crime indeed.” Viktor nods and closes his fist around the gift.
“It is good that we have become such fast friends, then, your grace.” She smiles, pleased, a hint of mischief underneath.
Magic. That is not something he ever dreamed of witnessing in Zaun. Now, he is holding it in his palm.
“I look forward to your next visit. For now, I believe I will retire for the night,” Viktor decides.
Mel Medarda does not speak another word. She simply turns, dark cloak billowing behind her, and pulls the hood up again to conceal her glimmering form.
When Viktor is alone, he finally opens his fist to examine the curious vial. He knows better than to drink it. He has just met Lady Medarda, and she did say he was smart to withhold his trust.
Then again, Viktor does not trust Prince Salo, and Mel has gone behind the prince’s back to give this potion to him. She could be a valuable ally, and he will need some friends within the palace walls.
Still, he should not drink it.
Viktor looks down again and watches the colors shift on the inside of the glass. The promise of magic is too alluring, too utterly powerful in his grasp.
Besides, it wouldn’t be an awful way to go, if it is intended to poison him. One sip and he’s free of this nightmare. A promise broken.
─────── 𓆩✉𓆪 ───────
Viktor of Chosen Name
This potion is to be taken once each fortnight upon my delivery if you so choose.
I have included a list of possible effects on the back of this parchment. Please read over them carefully and contact me if you have any concerns. My tower is in the east wing of the palace. Jayce can show you the way. He is trustworthy and will keep quiet if needed.
Burn this letter in the fireplace after you have finished reading. The prince will not take kindly to our alliance.
M
─────── 𓆩♔𓆪 ───────
Mel Medarda’s potion does not kill him. Not at all.
Magic is so scarce in this region that Viktor doubts the drink will do much to his body, even if it isn’t meant to kill him. He is proven wrong when he notices the difference between his thighs within a matter of days. The nub just above his cunt has grown into a small cock, no bigger than his fingernail but still noticeably erect and attentive at times in a way it hasn't been before.
The potion has also brought strong waves of needy pleasure, making Viktor feel like a wild beast in heat, rubbing that little swollen nub beneath the sheets for days on end, excusing it as a sudden illness. He bathes frequently in an attempt to wash away the smell of sweat and arousal that cling sticky to his skin with shame.
When he isn’t indulging himself, he finds the library a suitable respite from the oppressive walls of his bedchamber. It turns out that Jayce shares his passion for magic and technological innovation across the realm. In Zaun, it was difficult to find recent texts, but the royal archives are overflowing with such records.
Viktor allows Jayce to speak freely during their time in the library. They debate on the origins of the arcane, challenging each other’s theories and citing the literature spread in front of them.
Over the course of several days in each other’s company, Viktor observes Jayce let his stoic mask fall away in place of passion and excitement. He sits across from Viktor at the table, talking with his hands and slapping the words on the pages for emphasis. Jayce is like a bottle that’s been corked for far too long, and with the seal now broken he’s a wealth of knowledge and natural curiosity.
That curiosity translates to other subjects as well, surprising Viktor with a forwardness he does not expect from a knight of such high station.
“You do not wish to join the prince for dinner, your grace?” Jayce asks at the end of the week, while escorting him back from another library session where they had been buried in tomes for hours on end.
“I wish to retire to my bed for the evening,” Viktor repeats.
It can’t come soon enough. The food here is too rich and makes him sick anyway. The tomes in the library are fascinating, and Jayce is good company, but the little pulse between his legs is becoming more urgent. All he wants is to sprawl on the silk sheets and pleasure himself until sleep takes him.
“The sun hasn’t set. Surely you do not mean to sleep at this hour?” Jayce persists.
“Very presumptuous of you, Jayce,” Viktor warns.
The purification acolytes in the House of Gods said I am not to be touched by another, Viktor thinks, amusing himself with what cannot be said aloud. Do not worry for my sacred chastity, dear knight. I cannot tarnish my purity with my own hand.
“Apologies, your grace. I only mean to-”
Viktor swivels on the end of his cane to face Jayce as they reach his door.
“Was it part of your sworn oath to know how much time I spend in my bed?”
Jayce looks stunned by the question, flushed with shame and unsure of how to respond.
“You may speak freely, Jayce,” Viktor sighs.
“I am so sorry,” Jayce says quickly, panic in his eyes.
“Jayce.”
“My intention was not to cause you discomfort-”
“Jayce. It is fine. You look like I would have you beheaded for such questions.”
Jayce is silent.
Oh.
“You think I would?” Viktor quiets his voice and looks both ways down the hall. “Good Gods.”
Jayce quickly opens the door and ushers him inside, closing them both in the bedchamber out of sight. Viktor’s breath leaves him in surprise at this sudden change in demeanor.
“You’ve been excellent so far, your grace. You are smart to play along with the royal traditions. But you do not know the prince the way I do.” Jayce speaks in a hushed, urgent voice.
“Of course, my lord, your loyalty belongs to the prince. It is he that bestowed you the honor of protecting his consort,” Viktor babbles, flustered and unsure of how to play his cards in the intensity of the moment.
“My loyalty belongs to the kingdom, your grace.”
“And what of Prince Salo, then?”
“You will know cruelty,” Jayce whispers, eyes burning. “I have seen it.”
Viktor holds his breath. He suspected this, but still, his heartbeat attempts to claw its way from between his ribs.
“Why tell me this?” He asks.
Jayce reaches for his shoulder – for just a moment – and then his hand retreats, falling to his side as if suddenly remembering their respective oaths. “Because I will protect you, Viktor.”
You cannot protect me from this.
“I am glad.” Viktor nods, a lump in his throat.
Jayce, towering over him with his halberd at his side, searches his eyes for trust, and then his tense shoulders fall square once more as duty befalls him again.
“Good night, your grace.” He nods.
Viktor stands tall with his cane at his side, still a head shorter than the man in front of him. “Good night, Jayce.”
─────── 𓆩✉𓆪 ───────
Your Grace,
The Prince is scheduled to sit for a portrait in the library this morning. I suggest that we take a walk in the private courtyards as a departure from our usual routine, so that we do not disturb the portraitist during their work.
Besides, your betrothed is a very busy man. We wouldn’t want to bore him with our literary pursuits.
Jayce
─────── 𓆩♔𓆪 ───────
“Why do you think Salo chose you?” Jayce asks in the courtyard.
Even with four stone walls surrounding them, reminding Viktor of his captivity, being outside in the fresh air is a welcome change. The Turning Season is upon them, leaves donning warm colors and becoming crisp under their footsteps.
Viktor has welcomed his knight to walk alongside him this morning and keep him company. The ease of conversation is pleasant like this, when his guardian isn’t trailing three steps behind.
He was surprised to find Jayce’s note slid under his door when he woke this morning. It seems that Jayce was genuine in his promise for protection, even from the future king himself.
In fact, Viktor has not crossed paths with his betrothed since the night of The Promising, now that he thinks of it.
“Salo invited an array of guests to The Promising,” Viktor replies, watching a songbird hop on the cobblestone beside them. “Some were rich and feminine, others were handsome brutes – he did not discriminate in his tastes. He asked many crude questions. But ultimately, it was I who was promised.”
He tries his best to recall the details, but the memory, although recent, is blurred like a nonsensical dream. It is hard to put the pieces together and make them fit. One moment, his mother was shining his shoes before the journey. The next, Salo’s pointed chin turned in his direction, and Viktor heard his voice for the first time, laced with sickening interest.
He was invited to approach the throne and was adorned with ceremonial cloth. A holy man spoke strange words, which Viktor was expected to repeat aloud. He was bathed, examined, prodded. A healer asked many questions about his brace, his leg, and his overall health.
What Viktor remembers most clearly now is Jayce walking protectively beside him to his chambers late that night. He was stoic, and covered head to toe in armor, but there was a certain safety and relief that came with his presence even then.
“But do you know why?” Jayce persists.
Viktor allows himself a light laugh. Yes, he remembers Salo whispering in his ear during the feast, when they were sitting beside each other.
“Actually, yes. Salo said he could not bear the thought of being outmatched by his consort. I was the only one present that would not easily outpace him.” Viktor taps his cane on the floor. “Prince Salo is deeply insecure about crutches, it turns out. Useful information for me to, eh, bend in my favor when needed.”
Viktor pauses, horrified that he said the words aloud and not just in his own head.
Jayce looks unphased by the slip. “He chose you because of your leg?”
“I would hope for my good looks as well.” Viktor forces a pained smile.
“Of course, your grace.” Jayce corrects himself.
Viktor is not unfamiliar with the insecurity that Salo harbors. He’s been disabled all his life, born early and crooked in the womb with little access to proper treatments. The children of Zaun were too fast, too wild for his weak gait and sickly nature.
Salo, however, knew a life of little challenges. Spoiled, wanting for nothing, child of the most rich and powerful family in the realm. When the attack almost claimed his life, it left him permanently scarred. His pain is forever linked to fear and distrust.
Viktor looks down at the brace encasing his own leg.
“This thing that has been a hindrance all my life finally put me ahead of everybody else… in a race I didn't want to win in the first place,” He laments aloud.
Jayce doesn’t seem to know how to respond, but his eyes are wide with emotion.
They continue their walk in thoughtful silence, allowing the comfort of each other’s company to ease the tension of the subject until it is soon whisked away with the gentle breeze.
─────── 𓆩♔𓆪 ───────
At the end of the week, just when Viktor has begun to settle into his nightly routine, he is interrupted by an unexpected request.
“You’ve been summoned,” Jayce announces upon entering the room.
Viktor rolls his eyes and continues unbuckling his brace. He doesn’t mind undressing in Jayce’s presence anymore. The two of them have become comfortable in vulnerability, and since Jayce is always around, Viktor has conceded to let his guard down.
“Summoned?” He laughs softly. “I thought my job was to look pretty and stay out of the way.”
Jayce doesn’t seem to find this amusing.
“My apologies, sir,” Viktor sighs, hands falling from the brace to prop himself up on the side of the bed. “Where will you be escorting me to at this late hour?”
Jayce hesitates, swallowing before he answers, “The prince’s chambers, your grace.”
Viktor’s face falls. “You cannot be serious.”
“He has requested your presence.”
Jayce is pale and avoiding eye contact, focused on the tapestry hanging on the far wall.
“Well then,” Viktor re-tightens the strap and stands, wincing with pain from a day of overuse, “lead the way.”
They walk in silence, with Jayce taking the lead down the corridor and up a spiral of stone steps that feel especially brutal this late in the evening.
Viktor’s mind swims with questions, but Jayce is all-business, formal as the night they met.
Salo’s chambers make Viktor’s lavish arrangements seem comparably quaint. There are several rooms, connected by wide stone archways. One is for dining, with a singular velvet chair and a plate of fresh fruit untouched. Another holds a large clawfoot tub perched atop a platform of tile and basins of heated water.
The final room is revealed to house a large four-post bedframe draped with velvets and sheer curtains, pulled open to invite guests. A woman is lying on her back at the end of the bed, humming softly with her eyes closed. She has feline ears that twitch and then shift towards Viktor and Jayce’s approaching footsteps. A Vastaya, Viktor notes.
Salo lies in the center of the bed, pale limbs sprawled lazily across a mound of pillows, blonde hair a mess. He wears only an elegant robe tied at his waist, which does not seem to phase Jayce in the slightest. Viktor masks his surprise to match.
“Ah, there you are.” Salo greets them casually. “Turn your gaze, Cleo, my promised has arrived.”
The Vastaya woman turns away quickly in response and lies still, face shielded from Viktor’s view. She is not a member of the royal court, Viktor realises, if she is not permitted to see him.
The prince stands from the bed with a pained sound, snatching a pair of crutches from the bedside table. They’re made of a golden metal with handles carved from opalescent stone, custom in the prince’s delicate grip.
“Apologies,” he straightens up, wincing, “I should have summoned you earlier in the day.”
“I could return when you are decent, your grace,” Viktor offers.
Salo barks a laugh. “Ha- Decent? As if you will not be the one in my bed come the time I am King.”
Viktor swallows and tightens his grip on his cane. “It is my honor.”
“So well behaved,” Salo smirks. “There is nothing honorable about fucking, Viktor. Surely you know this.”
Jayce coughs in surprise and Salo whips his head to glare at him. “You.”
Viktor looks between them as they stare, but they do not exchange any words.
Salo is the one to retreat from the tension. “Maybe this one can teach you manners, Jayce.”
“If I may,” Viktor interrupts carefully, “did you have something you wished to discuss with me?”
Salo collapses into the outturned dining chair. “Can I not summon my future consort for a bit of company if I please? There is no oath that prevents us from simply conversing.”
“Certainly, your grace.”
“I heard Lady Medarda paid you a visit last week, is that right?”
Viktor’s eyes quickly flick to Jayce, who nods subtly.
“Correct. She came to welcome me to the palace.”
“In your private quarters?”
Viktor takes a breath, and speaks calmly. “Yes, she offered me a gift.”
Jayce’s brow furrows in confusion, a warning not to reveal too much.
“A gift, you say?” Salo’s eyes gleam with interest.
“A potion. To help with my pain,” Viktor lies. “It was a kind gesture.”
“Ah, yes. She is practiced in the healing arts.” Salo gestures to his own legs. “I too, require her arcane touch.”
When Viktor glances downwards and catches something he didn’t notice before. Arcane markings, like faint purple tattoos, follow the vertical planes of both the prince’s legs.
“Fascinating,” Viktor can’t help but whisper in awe.
“Yes, yes, very. It’s all beyond me. That being said,” Salo continues with a tone of boredom, “I would like to keep a close eye on who is paying you visits. My trust has to be earned, and we are still getting acquainted.”
“Of course, your grace,” Viktor nods.
“It is a shame though, that we cannot be acquainted physically before our union.”
Viktor watches the prince’s fingers tap at the wood of the table. He feels a buzzing of panic, pinned by the power of Salo’s deceptively casual tone. His words carry weight. There’s a threat underneath that makes Viktor’s skin crawl.
“I’m sure all the waiting on your part will make it worth the while,” Salo adds with a sly smile.
“It would be my honor, your grace,” Viktor responds quietly.
“Will you be this submissive in bed, Viktor?”
Viktor’s voice catches in his throat. He cannot find the words to respond to such forward remarks.
Salo sighs, obviously not getting the response he hoped for.
“Fine, go. You are dismissed. I have other matters to attend to.” He looks over to the woman in his bed that Viktor forgot was still there.
Viktor must wear some sort of expression of confusion because Salo laughs again as he stands.
“Don’t be so scandalized, Viktor. You are promised to me, but I am not promised to you. I am free to do what I please.”
He leans in, a dark look in his eyes. “Does that bother you?”
Viktor shakes his head. “No, my prince.”
“Good.” Viktor can feel his breath on his face, but the prince still doesn’t dare touch. The oath is a powerful thing, and for the first time Viktor thanks the gods for it.
When Salo’s voice whispers close, for only him to hear, Viktor feels a violent chill down his spine that fills his body with sickening dread.
The words echo in Viktor’s mind all the way back to his own chambers, and haunt him as he lies on the mattress by the warmth of the fireplace.
“You are mine.”