Capítulo 115: chapter 110
No. I can't let that happen. I can't.
His chest tightened as he looked down at the fishing rod in his hands. His palms were sweaty despite the cold, his breath puffing out in uneven clouds. He'd been so happy earlier, so proud when he caught his first two fish. But that joy felt like a cruel joke now. A taste of victory dangled in front of him only to be yanked away just as quickly.
Think, Beom, think. He tried to calm his breathing, to steady the wild thudding of his heart. You need to win. You need to catch more fish, or you'll lose everything. This isn't just about going into town anymore. It's about survival.
Yaroslav's voice broke into his thoughts, smooth and teasing. "You said when the first person catches five, they get what they want. Right, Beom?"
Beom glanced up sharply, his teeth gritting as he met Yaroslav's gaze. That smirk—the one Yaroslav always wore when he thought he had the upper hand—was etched into his face. Those piercing blue eyes seemed to shine with confidence, daring Beom to challenge him.
Beom's fingers curled tighter around the rod as irritation flared in his chest. Smug bastard. It wasn't fair. Yaroslav made everything look effortless. Fishing? Effortless. Holding him prisoner? Effortless. Controlling his life? Effortless. Beom hated how calm and composed Yaroslav always seemed, like he was untouchable, like he already knew how the story would end.
Well, screw that. This isn't over yet.
Beom's eyes darted back to the water, his mind racing. I need to focus. I just need to catch three more fish before he gets his fifth. That's it. Three fish. I can do this. He let out a shaky breath, willing his nerves to settle.
But no matter how hard he tried to focus, that suffocating pressure weighed on him like a heavy blanket. It wasn't just about the stupid fish anymore—it was about proving something. To Yaroslav. To himself. Beom refused to let Yaroslav win again. He refused to feel powerless.
I won't let you win this time, Beom thought fiercely, his lips pressing into a thin line.
The rod in Yaroslav's hands bent suddenly as another fish tugged at his line. Beom's heart plummeted into his stomach, a wave of panic surging through him.
"Damn it," Beom muttered under his breath as Yaroslav reeled in the fish with practiced ease. Another splash, another victory, another smug smirk. Beom couldn't even look at him as Yaroslav added the fifth fish to his bucket.
"Five," Yaroslav said simply, as if announcing the obvious.
Beom's head dropped slightly, his gaze fixed on his lap as the tension in his chest tightened like a vice. His breathing felt uneven, his mind screaming at him to figure out something—anything—to turn the situation around.
Yaroslav didn't say anything more. He just sat there, silent and watchful, as if waiting for Beom to process his loss.
This isn't fair. It's not fair.
Beom clenched his fists, his gloves creaking with the pressure. He could feel Yaroslav's gaze on him, that unrelenting blue burning into his skin. It made his frustration boil even hotter, but at the same time, there was something else simmering beneath the surface—something raw and painful.
Why do I always lose?
The question echoed in his head like a whisper, haunting and unwelcome. It wasn't just about the fish. It was about everything. Being trapped here. Being lied to. Being controlled. Beom didn't ask for any of this, and yet here he was, helpless and losing again.
No.
Beom suddenly straightened up, lifting his chin and forcing himself to meet Yaroslav's gaze. His pride wouldn't let him back down, not completely. "Fine," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "You won. But don't think this changes anything."
Yaroslav tilted his head slightly, that smirk still lingering. "Is that so?"
Beom looked away sharply, his cheeks burning from anger—or maybe something else he didn't want to admit. "Let's just go back. It's getting cold," he muttered, grabbing the bucket of fish and standing up.
As he walked away, his thoughts churned in his head like a storm. You might've won this time, Yaroslav, he thought bitterly, but this isn't over. I'll find a way to escape, no matter what.
And despite the tightness in his chest and the burning frustration in his veins, a flicker of determination lit in his heart. Because Beom knew one thing for certain—he couldn't let Yaroslav win forever.
Yaroslav sat on the edge of the bed, his posture radiating dominance as he leaned back slightly, one arm draped lazily over the headboard. His legs were spread wide, exuding confidence, and the intense gleam in his striking blue eyes bore into Beom. The air felt thick with tension, a mixture of authority and desire swirling around the room. Yaroslav's voice was smooth yet commanding as he spoke, each word deliberate.
"I don't like repeating myself twice," he said, the corners of his lips twitching into the faintest smirk.
Beom stood near the dresser, his frame draped in the soft fabric of a bathrobe, the loose tie around his waist the only thing keeping his modesty intact. The robe hung off one shoulder, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of his smooth, lightly toned collarbone. His hair was damp, a few strands clinging to his flushed cheeks, still pink from the hot shower. Beom clenched his hands into fists, his palms slightly damp with sweat, a testament to the whirlwind of emotions inside him—nervousness, defiance, and something he didn't want to admit.
Yaroslav groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down Beom's spine. Before he could react, Yaroslav reached out, tugging the belt of the robe with a swift, decisive motion. The knot unraveled effortlessly, and the robe slipped from Beom's shoulders, cascading to the floor in a whisper of fabric. Cool air brushed against his bare skin, igniting goosebumps, but it was the way Yaroslav's eyes darkened with unrestrained appreciation that made Beom's heart race.
"Beautiful..." Yaroslav muttered under his breath, his gaze roaming over every inch of Beom's exposed form. His tone was reverent, almost disbelieving, as if he were marveling at a masterpiece come to life. Beom's cheeks burned hot under the intensity of his stare, his instinct urging him to cover himself, yet he couldn't bring himself to move. He felt vulnerable, exposed—not just physically but emotionally—as if Yaroslav's gaze was peeling back every layer of his carefully guarded self.
"Now, walk to me," Yaroslav ordered, his voice dropping into a husky, almost predatory timbre. The words weren't a request—they were a command.
Beom's legs felt like jelly as he stood frozen, his thoughts a chaotic storm. What does he see in me? he wondered, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Am I really beautiful to him, or is this just a game he plays to keep control? A part of him wanted to rebel, to cross his arms and tell Yaroslav to go to hell. But another part, the one that thrilled at the smoldering heat in those blue eyes, urged him forward.
He's insufferable, Beom thought, biting his lower lip to suppress a shaky breath. And yet… why does it feel like my body wants to obey? He clenched his fists again, his nails digging into his palms as he took a hesitant step forward, then another. Each movement felt excruciatingly slow, the tension between them so palpable it was almost suffocating.
Yaroslav's gaze never wavered, his expression unreadable but filled with an unspoken promise that made Beom's stomach twist in knots. As Beom approached, the words echoed in his mind again: Beautiful.
Damn him, Beom thought bitterly, though the heat in his chest betrayed him. Why does he have to make me feel like this? Like I'm standing in the eye of a storm, and he's the only one who can calm it.
Yaroslav leaned back against the headboard, his posture exuding dominance as he studied Beom from above with piercing blue eyes. His legs spread casually, he looked like a king awaiting a tribute, a smirk playing on his lips. The air between them was thick with tension, a heady mixture of power and something far more primal.
"Don't worry," Yaroslav said, his voice low and velvety, every word dripping with an infuriating mix of amusement and command. "Since you overworked yourself yesterday, why don't you just give me something else instead?" His smirk deepened as he added, "Just suck me off until I come." His tone was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it made Beom's cheeks burn hotter. "Go on," Yaroslav finished, leaning forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. It wasn't a request—it was a demand.
Beom's jaw clenched, his frustration bubbling to the surface. His pride screamed at him to refuse, to push back against Yaroslav's arrogance, but he knew better. He'd seen that look in Yaroslav's eyes before—sharp, cold, and utterly unyielding. Resistance wouldn't just be futile; it would only give Yaroslav more reason to tease him, to push him further into submission.
God, he's insufferable, Beom thought bitterly, groaning as he begrudgingly lowered himself onto his knees. The plush carpet beneath him felt soft against his skin, a stark contrast to the hard, domineering gaze boring into him. His heart raced, every beat loud in his ears as his fingers hovered over Yaroslav's waistband. His mind swirled with conflicting emotions—resentment, embarrassment, and an unwelcome spark of anticipation he couldn't quite suppress.
Why do I let him do this? Beom wondered, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Why does it feel like I can't say no? Like my body reacts before I even have the chance to think? He shook his head slightly, trying to push away the thoughts that only made his predicament feel even more humiliating.
With a shaky breath, Beom hooked his fingers under the waistband of Yaroslav's sweats, pulling them down in one swift motion. His eyes widened slightly as Yaroslav's impressive length sprang free, standing proudly as if mocking Beom's hesitation. The sudden movement caught him off guard, and before he could react, the weighty shaft slapped against his cheek with a dull thud.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder