Chapter 1: The Burglar's Surprise
Kaidan floated.
The world was soft around the edges, a watercolor painting bleeding into itself. He remembered Hank leaving hours ago, the quiet click of the door, the muffled sound of the city through his thin apartment walls. He remembered the drink Hank had handed him, something sweet and citrusy in a tall glass. “For your nerves, kitcat,” he’d said, kissing his forehead. Kaidan had drunk it down, the cool liquid a relief against the day’s accumulated static in his brain.
Now, he was a languid puddle on his bed, buried in plush blankets that smelled like fabric softener and himself. The cat ears were a comforting weight on his head.The collar, just leather, felt like an anchor. He’d been sketching earlier, a catboy curled in a sunbeam, but the pencil had slipped from his fingers. Pages of his secret diary, the one with the worn leather cover, were scattered near his pillow, the words blurring.He dreamed of hands. Large, warm hands carding through his hair, tracing the line of his jaw. A voice, deep and muffled, telling him he was pretty.Wanted.A click.It wasn’t part of the dream. It was metallic, final.The sound of the deadbolt turning from the outside.
Kaidan’s eyelids fluttered. He tried to sit up, but his body was leaden, submerged in syrup.His thoughts moved like they were wading through deep water. From the bedroom doorway, he saw a shadow detach itself from the deeper darkness of the hall.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced the warm fog in his veins.
He tried to make a sound, but his throat only produced a faint, whining hum.His limbs wouldn’t obey. He watched, eyes wide and unblinking, as the figure moved into the slice of moonlight coming through the window.
It was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, a solid silhouette against the chaos of half-finished canvases and stacked books. He wore black, head to toe, and a balaclava hid his face.The moonlight glinted off something in his gloved hands.Red coils.Rope.
Kaidan’s breath hitched. He pushed against the mattress, managing only a weak twist of his hips.The fluffy black tail attached to his shorts twitched pathetically. He was a rabbit in the open, frozen.The man approached without hurry.The floorboards didn’t even creak. He stopped beside the bed, looking down. Kaidan could see his own reflection—pale face, dark circles, drawn-on whiskers smudged from where he’d rubbed his cheek—in the man’s dark eyes.A gloved hand reached out.
Kaidan squeezed his eyes shut, a tear escaping down his temple.He waited for the blow, the pain.
The hand settled on his head.It was heavy, warm even through the leather. It stroked his hair, then gently scratched behind one of the fake cat ears.The touch was careful.Almost… familiar.
Confusion swirled with the dread and the drugs.Kaidan opened his eyes.
The man was looking at the diary pages.He picked one up, held it to the light. Kaidan’s own handwriting, the messy script detailing a fantasy so private it burned to see it in another’s hands.He finds me like this… just a lonely little thing… He doesn’t hurt me. He touches me like I’m something precious. He says he’s going to keep me…
The masked head tilted.Then, the man moved. With a terrifying, effortless efficiency, he took Kaidan’s wrist.Kaidan’s weak protest was a muffled groan. The red rope, soft and firm, looped around his slender arm, then the bedpost. The knots were tight, but not cruel.They held without biting. He bound the other wrist, then first one ankle, then the other, spreading Kaidan open against the blankets. Kaidan’s breath came in short, shallow gasps.The vulnerability was absolute, paralyzing.
The man stood back, surveying his work. The red ropes stood out starkly against Kaidan’s pale skin and the gray sheets.A predator admiring its capture.
He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a black strip of cloth.A gag.Panic surged, giving Kaidan a moment of clarity. He shook his head, a frantic little motion. “P-please,” he slurred, the word thick and clumsy.The man paused.He leaned in, his masked face inches from Kaidan’s. Kaidan could feel the heat of his breath, smell a faint scent of cedarwood soap and sweat. The gloved hand returned to his cheek, thumb stroking over the smudged whiskers.
Then, with his other hand, the man took hold of the edge of the balaclava.
And pulled it off.
Hank’s face emerged, his short black hair slightly flattened, his expression unreadable in the low light.Kaidan’s world stopped spinning. It just… stopped. The fear evaporated, leaving a vast, bewildering emptiness that was instantly flooded with a heat so intense it felt like a fever. His heart, which had been hammering with terror, now tripped into a frantic, rhythmless drumming against his ribs.Hank.It was Hank.
His Hank, who brought him stupid energy drinks and listened to his rambling art ideas and whose big, heavy arm around his shoulders felt like the only real shelter in the world.
Hank, who was looking down at him, tied up in a catboy cosplay with red rope, his eyes dark and intent.Kaidan’s mouth went dry.All the air left the room. He saw the diary page still clutched in Hank’s gloved hand. Understanding crashed over him, wave after wave of it, devastating and exhilarating.Hank had read it.Hank had done this. For him.The vulnerable, worried cast of Kaidan’s face softened. The perpetual sadness around his eyes melted, replaced by a dazed, overwhelming awe. A blush, hot and deep, spread from his chest up his neck, painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears a luminous pink.
Hank smiled then, a slow, tender thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He leaned close again, his lips brushing the shell of Kaidan’s ear, his voice a low, rough whisper that vibrated through Kaidan’s bound body.“Hey, pretty thing. Look what I found all alone.”
The words were from the diary.They were his words. Hearing them in Hank’s voice, feeling them in the air between them, sparked something deep in Kaidan’s belly.A yearning so acute it was an ache.
Hank’s bare hand—he’d taken the glove off—cupped Kaidan’s face, calloused thumb sweeping over his bottom lip.His gaze was overwhelming, a physical weight of affection and possessiveness.
Kaidan swallowed.He felt the tears well up again, but they were different now. He looked up at Hank, at his boyfriend wearing the face of a burglar, his sky-blue eyes wide and shining with a desperate, surrendered trust. The drugs and the adrenaline and the sheer emotional whiplash left him trembling, floating, perfectly, exquisitely pliant.
His voice, when it finally came, was a fragile, breathless whisper, so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the old refrigerator from the next room.
“Please… keep going.”