Chapter 4
1030words
He flexed his fingers, tattered combat suit fabric scratching against his skin—a reminder of his humiliating defeat. Slowly, he turned his head toward the corner of the basement.
Bruce was there.
He huddled like a drenched stray with nowhere to go. The beast had retreated, leaving the body that had erupted with such power now looking fragile. Naked, he hugged his knees to his chest, face buried in his arms as if trying to vanish. Though silent, his broad back shook uncontrollably—not from cold, but from inner torment worse than any curse. His returned humanity brought no comfort, only brutal self-judgment. He remembered what he'd done to Dick.
That knowledge cut deeper than blessed silver or breaking bones. Each memory stabbed like a poisoned blade, shredding what remained of his sanity.
Dick pushed himself up on his elbows, bones protesting. Still, he stubbornly inched toward that broken silhouette. Words formed in his throat—"it's okay" or "I understand"—but died there, pathetically inadequate against the violence that had just occurred.
"Don't touch me."
The sandpaper voice from the corner carried quiet resolve. Bruce didn't look up, but his words built an invisible wall between them. Not a command—a plea. He wasn't seeing Dick as an intruder but as something sacred he'd defiled. He couldn't bear his own touch, much less the knowledge that he'd violated the one person he'd sworn to protect.
Dick froze. Bruce's words hit like ice water, dousing any warmth in his chest. Right—he wasn't here as a knight rescuing a prince, but as a jailer. A guard imprisoning this dangerous beast while locking away his own twisted feelings.
He stood silently, stumbling as his body protested. Without looking at Bruce again, he grabbed water and bread from the supplies, then tossed them onto the floor. The metal bottle clanged against stone, shattering the silence. His face remained expressionless, eyes cold as Siberian winter, as though the man before him wasn't someone he'd loved for years but merely a dangerous prisoner—a target.
This became their cruel routine. By day, Dick played the cold, merciless guard, silently handling feeding and cleaning, his indifference walling off Bruce's despair. Bruce haunted his corner like a ghost, ignoring Dick's "charity," letting hunger and pain gnaw at his body and will.
But when darkness fell, Dick's mask crumbled. Under the crude shower, he scrubbed himself raw with ice-cold water, as if trying to erase the memory of violation. He rubbed the bite mark on his neck until it bled anew, yet Bruce's taste—that mix of blood and madness—had seeped into his very marrow, impossible to wash away.
Water cascaded over his body as the dam inside him crumbled. Behind closed eyes, memories flooded back—helplessness as he was pinned down, the weight of Bruce's burning body, the terror of being crushed by unstoppable force. Yet in the darkness, these feelings transformed. A shameful tremor crept up his spine. He was savoring the memory of being dominated. He hated this feeling—yet craved it desperately.
With sudden horror, he realized his feelings for Bruce had long ago moved beyond admiration. When he'd first set out to find him, these feelings were already twisted; when he'd become a hunter, they'd intensified. Now, in this prison of his making, his love—tangled with humiliation, possession, and dark desire—had become a wildfire that could consume them both.
Days later, Dick arrived with the usual food. Bruce hadn't eaten in days. Extreme hunger combined with the curse's torment made his eyes flash dangerously gold, his control hanging by a thread. As Dick bent to set down the tray, something in Bruce snapped.
"ROAR!"
With a guttural roar, Bruce launched forward like lightning! Gone was any method—only primal, bestial instinct remained.
This time, Dick was ready. No panic—his body moved before his mind could catch up. He neither retreated nor blocked, but met Bruce with fluid precision. Shifting sideways, he lowered his center, right hand guiding Bruce's swinging arm upward while his left foot slipped into Bruce's stance. The very technique Bruce had taught him—how to neutralize a stronger opponent.
Master and student engaged in a bizarre dance within the confined space. Not a battle but a violent tango charged with danger. Bruce's attacks came fierce and lethal, each neutralized by Dick with minimal effort and perfect technique. Dick moved like a leaf in a storm, bending without breaking against Bruce's savage force. Their bodies collided repeatedly, sweat and breath mingling, the air thick with tension.
Finally, with a perfect spin to redirect momentum, Dick slipped behind Bruce and pinned him against the stone wall. One arm locked around Bruce's neck, legs wrapped tight around his waist—a textbook submission hold that ended their dangerous dance.
Bruce panted and struggled, growling deep in his throat, but the power balance had shifted. Dick pressed his weight forward, feeling every muscle twitch in Bruce's back, the wild heartbeat hammering in his chest.
He didn't release his hold. Instead, he brought his lips to Bruce's ear, hot breath ghosting over sensitive skin. In a voice like the devil's own whisper, he spoke each word deliberately:
"Look at me, Bruce."
His voice carried a dark, almost pleasurable roughness.
"Look at what you've done to me…" He paused, savoring the moment, then continued in a voice dangerous with naked desire, "…and see how I yearn for you."
The provocative words pierced Bruce's mind like a hot needle, cutting through the blood-red haze. His roar died instantly, body stiffening. Those golden pupils contracted sharply as human awareness—pain and shock—flickered across his face.
He understood. In this moment of brutal clarity, he saw the hell he'd created—not just his own damnation, but how he'd dragged the person he cherished most into this twisted, desperate web of desire.
