chapter 115- 18+

Beom rolled his eyes, but the light-hearted banter couldn't distract him from the weight of the revelation. Far away from everyone. The words echoed in his mind, sinking in deeper than he'd expected. He was completely cut off—no chance of running into anyone who might help him, no hope of escaping to a nearby town or city. The isolation wasn't just physical; it was psychological. Yaroslav had ensured that Beom had no tether to the outside world.

Beom crossed his arms, leaning back against the table as he tried to mask the unease settling in his chest. "Sounds like overkill to me," he muttered, his voice quieter now. "What are you so afraid of? That I'll slip away and tell everyone your secrets?"

Yaroslav didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took his shot, the cue ball gliding smoothly across the table and striking its target with precision. He watched as the ball sank into the pocket before finally looking back at Beom. "Afraid?" he echoed, his voice calm but firm. "No. I just like to be thorough."

Beom clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He hated how effortlessly Yaroslav maintained control, how he always seemed to have the upper hand. But more than that, he hated the growing realization that, for now, he truly was trapped. No one was coming for him. No one even knew where he was.

His thoughts spiraled, memories of his family flashing through his mind—his sister Beom-sook, his mother. Did they think he was dead? Had they given up hope of ever finding him? He swallowed hard, forcing himself to push the thoughts aside. This wasn't the time to wallow in despair. If anything, it was a reminder that he needed to find a way out, no matter how impossible it seemed.

"Thorough, huh?" Beom said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Well, congratulations. You've succeeded. I'm as isolated as a shipwreck survivor on a deserted island."

Yaroslav tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Good," he said simply, his voice low and unwavering. "That's exactly how I planned it."

Beom clenched his fists, biting back the retort that hovered on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. The whiskey in his glass seemed less appealing now, but he took another sip anyway, letting the burn steady him.

Inwardly, his resolve hardened. Fine, he thought. You've built your little prison, Yaroslav. But even the strongest walls can crumble. And when they do, I'll be the one walking out, not you.

Beom leaned over the pool table, focusing on his shot, trying to channel all the tension and unease in his body into the simple, straightforward act of playing the game. His breathing was steady, his eyes locked on the ball as he calculated the perfect angle. He hadn't noticed Yaroslav approaching until it was too late.

The moment Beom raised himself from his position, he felt it—a warm, solid presence pressing against his back. His body stiffened instantly, his grip on the cue stick tightening as alarm bells went off in his mind. Before he could react, Yaroslav's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him close in an embrace that made Beom's skin crawl.

Beom's breath hitched. The heat of Yaroslav's body against his own, the possessive hold, the faint scent of expensive cologne—it all felt wrong. Completely, utterly wrong. Then came the next horrifying sensation: Yaroslav burying his face in Beom's neck, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin before pressing his lips there.

Beom's stomach churned in disgust as Yaroslav inhaled deeply, almost as if savoring the moment. Then the kisses started, soft but deliberate, trailing maddeningly slow along his neck. Beom's entire body screamed for him to fight back, to lash out, to do anything to escape, but a cold, paralyzing rage kept him rooted in place.

"Get off me," Beom hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. He shifted, trying to break free, but Yaroslav's grip was ironclad. His movements were unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to torment Beom.

Yaroslav ignored the command entirely, his lips still brushing against Beom's neck, planting unwanted kisses as if staking a claim. "I have to admit," Yaroslav murmured, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm, "you're adapting well to this new... you."

The words hit Beom like a physical blow, and his heart sank. He knew exactly what Yaroslav meant. This wasn't just some sick game; it was a calculated effort to dismantle him piece by piece. Yaroslav's obsession with turning him into a woman wasn't a fleeting whim. It was a cruel, methodical plan to strip Beom of everything that made him who he was.

The estrogen, the taunts, the invasive touches—all of it clicked together in Beom's mind like pieces of a dark puzzle. This wasn't about attraction or desire; it was about domination. Control.

"I didn't ask for this," Beom spat, his voice trembling with fury. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the cue stick tighter, resisting the urge to use it as a weapon. "Whatever sick fantasy you're trying to fulfill, it won't work. I'll always be me, no matter how much you try to screw with my head."

Yaroslav chuckled softly, a sound that made Beom's blood boil. It was the laugh of someone who believed they were untouchable. "You say that now," Yaroslav murmured, his lips brushing against Beom's ear, "but give it time. You'll come to see things my way eventually. They always do."

They always do. The phrase echoed in Beom's mind, each repetition more nauseating than the last. How many others had Yaroslav done this to? How many lives had he destroyed in his twisted quest for control? Beom's thoughts raced, each one more horrifying than the last. The idea of being just another one of Yaroslav's "projects" made his skin crawl, and fury bubbled up in his chest.

"You're disgusting," Beom said, his voice low but filled with venom. He shifted, trying to push Yaroslav away, but the man's grip only tightened.

Before he could speak again, Yaroslav turned Beom toward him, his lips crashing against Beom's in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was forceful, suffocating, and entirely devoid of consent.

Beom's first instinct was to fight back, his hands pushing against Yaroslav's chest with all his strength. "Stop!" Beom shouted, his voice muffled against Yaroslav's mouth. He turned his head, trying to break the kiss, but Yaroslav only tightened his grip, his hands roaming as he tried to assert his dominance further.

"Enough!" Beom roared, his voice raw and filled with fury. His hand swung up before he could think, connecting with Yaroslav's cheek in a sharp, resounding slap.

Yaroslav stumbled back slightly, his hand brushing the reddening mark on his face. The room fell into a tense silence, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Beom stood there, panting, his chest heaving as he glared at Yaroslav. His body trembled with a mix of anger, fear, and disgust, but his gaze was unwavering. "You're sick," Beom spat, his voice trembling but defiant. "You're nothing but a pathetic, twisted coward who gets off on controlling others. But I won't break. No matter what you do, no matter how far you go, I'll never become what you want me to be."

Yaroslav smirked, a cold, calculating expression that sent a shiver down Beom's spine. "We'll see about that," he said, his voice maddeningly calm.

Beom's hands tightened into fists at his sides. He knew this wouldn't be the last time Yaroslav tried to break him, but one thing was clear—Beom wasn't going down without a fight.

Beom stumbled out of the room, his breathing ragged and his mind racing. His legs felt unsteady as though the very ground beneath him was unstable. He bolted toward the kitchen, desperate for some kind of reprieve. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he yanked open the cabinet door and grabbed a glass. The sound of it clattering against the countertop echoed in the empty kitchen, matching the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

He filled the glass with water, the stream from the faucet loud in the silence. Raising the glass to his lips, he drank in hurried gulps, but it did little to ease the dryness in his throat or the lump of panic lodged there. His entire body shook as he leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the sink.

Beom hated this feeling. He hated the fear curling in his stomach like a venomous snake, threatening to swallow him whole. Most of all, he hated that Yaroslav had the power to evoke this in him. His entire life, Beom had prided himself on his resilience, his ability to push through even the worst of situations. But Yaroslav... Yaroslav was a different kind of danger. Not just physical, but psychological, like a shadow creeping into every corner of Beom's mind.

His chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He can't break me. He won't. Beom repeated the words in his mind like a mantra, but the tremor in his hands betrayed his internal turmoil.

Meanwhile, back in the dimly lit room, Yaroslav stood in silence, his fingers brushing the stinging mark Beom's slap had left on his cheek. He wasn't angry—at least, not in the way one might expect. Instead, he was pensive. His piercing blue eyes stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed slightly as he replayed the scene in his head.

He wasn't entirely sure what had come over him. There was a strange mix of emotions swirling within him—control, desire, frustration—but also something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name. Yaroslav clenched his jaw, brushing aside the intrusive thoughts. This was no time for reflection, not when the situation required his full attention.

The sharp ring of his phone broke through the silence, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen: Vanya. Yaroslav answered with a cool demeanor, his voice steady as though nothing had just transpired.

"Yaroslav," Vanya's voice came through, tense and hurried. "We have a problem."

Yaroslav leaned against the pool table, his expression unreadable. "Go on," he said calmly.

"The Crimson Vanguard knows where you are," Vanya said. "They're preparing to come after you. More importantly, they're coming for Beom. If they have to remove you from the picture to get to him, they won't hesitate."