Chapter 10: Dressing Room Devotion
The black car didn’t return to the penthouse.
It slid through the city’s arteries, a silent shark in a river of light, heading in a direction Yong-Jin didn’t recognize. The silence inside was a living thing, swollen with the memory of that crack and the metallic scent of Zykin’s blood still hanging in the air. Yong-Jin watched his own reflection in the tinted window, a ghost in a borrowed coat. He didn’t ask where they were going. His hand, still clasped in Zykin’s, felt both numb and hyper-alive, every nerve ending aware of the rough, split skin against the soft leather of his glove.
They stopped beneath a towering structure of glass and steel, a place that breathed exclusivity. A doorman in a severe black uniform materialized, opening Yong-Jin’s door before Anton had fully parked. Zykin released his hand only to place his own at the small of Yong-Jin’s back, steering him through rotating brass doors into a lobby that swallowed sound. The air here was different—cold, perfumed, expensive. The floors were veined marble, so polished they reflected the crystal chandeliers above in distorted, watery pools.
“Where?” Yong-Jin managed, his voice a dry rasp.
“A fitting,” Zykin said, the word offering no clarity.
They were met by a slender man with impeccably groomed silver hair and eyes that missed nothing. “Pakhan Zykin,” he murmured with a slight bow. “The suite is ready.”
An elevator, lined with etched bronze, carried them upward in a whisper. The suite it opened into was not a home. It was a stage. A cavernous space of cream and gold, dominated by a central lounge area and, along one wall, a series of arched, gilded mirrors that created a dizzying infinity of reflections.
“Wait here,” Zykin told the silver-haired man, who vanished as quietly as he’d appeared.
The door clicked shut, leaving them in the opulent silence. Yong-Jin stood rigid, his coat feeling like a lead weight. Zykin shed his own overcoat, tossing it over a velvet settee. The black turtleneck made him a stark silhouette against the pale room. He approached one of the large mirrors, studying his reflection, turning his hand over to examine the broken skin on his knuckles.
Yong-Jin watched him, the aftermath of the violence clinging to Zykin’s relaxed posture like a second skin. He thought of Litvinov’s blustering face, the sound that wasn’t a gunshot. He took a step back, his heel meeting the base of a low table.
Zykin saw the movement in the mirror. He turned, slowly. His green eyes tracked Yong-Jin’s retreat the way a cat watches a sparrow.
“You’re afraid,” he stated. It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact pulled from the air between them.
Yong-Jin shook his head, a useless, automatic denial. His throat was too tight for words.
Zykin moved then, not with the explosive speed he was capable of, but with a deliberate, ground-covering stride that gave Yong-Jin too much time to think, to freeze. He backed up until his shoulders met the cold, hard surface of one of the giant mirrors. The infinite reflection at his back showed a trapped man.
Zykin closed the final distance, caging him in. He didn’t touch him yet. He just looked down, his gaze a physical weight.
“The fear is good,” he murmured, his voice low enough to vibrate in Yong-Jin’s bones. “It means you understand the value of things. The cost.”
He brought his injured hand up, the bruised knuckles hovering near Yong-Jin’s cheek. “This was the cost of you. A small one.” He let his fingers drift down, tracing the line of Yong-Jin’s jaw. The touch was shockingly gentle over the rough abrasion of his skin.
Then his other hand came up, fisting in the luxuriously soft cashmere of the sweater he’d chosen. He didn’t pull it off. He pushed it up, rucking the fine material in his grasp, exposing a strip of Yong-Jin’s stomach. The cooler air of the room hit his skin, raising goosebumps.
Zykin’s eyes drank in the sight. “I bought this for you,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “I chose the color. I imagined this wool against your skin.” His fist tightened, twisting the sweater higher. “Now I need to see it.”
He leaned in, his mouth finding the hammering pulse at the side of Yong-Jin’s neck. It wasn’t a kiss. His teeth grazed the skin, a promise of possession, before his lips sealed over the spot, sucking a mark that would bloom later into a violet claim. At the same time, his massive hand slid down from Yong-Jin’s belly, over the front of the tailored trousers, and palmed the hardening length there through the fabric.
Yong-Jin gasped, his head thudding back against the mirror. The cold glass against his skull, the heat of Zykin’s mouth on his neck, the firm pressure on his cock—it was too much, a sensory overload that short-circuited the fear and left only a raw, trembling shock.
“Let me see how my expensive gifts look on your naked skin,” Zykin growled against his throat, his breath hot.
His hand left Yong-Jin’s crotch to make quick, brutal work of the trousers’ fastening. The button popped, the zipper hissed down. He shoved the expensive fabric and the underwear beneath down Yong-Jin’s thighs in one rough motion, trapping his legs. Yong-Jin’s cock sprung free, already half-hard, flushed and exposed in the cold, mirrored room.
Zykin leaned back slightly, his gaze raking over the vulnerability he’d created. Yong-Jin was pinned, the cashmere sweater still rucked up under his armpits, his pants around his knees, his erection jutting out. A portrait of plunder framed by gold leaf.
“Perfect,” Zykin breathed, the word filled with a dark, reverent hunger.
He dropped to his knees.
The sight was so profoundly shocking that Yong-Jin made a choked sound. Zykin Vladislavovich, Pakhan, Tsar, on his knees on the marble floor. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease. He took Yong-Jin into his mouth in one deep, engulfing swallow.
Yong-Jin cried out, a sharp, broken noise that echoed in the vast room. The heat was unbelievable, a slick, tight furnace. Zykin’s head began to move, a ruthless, efficient rhythm. He used his tongue, his throat, his hands gripping Yong-Jin’s bare hips to keep him still against the mirror. He sucked with a voracious intensity that was less about pleasure and more about consumption. Every pull was a claiming. The faint, coppery taste of his own blood from his knuckles must have mingled there, a brutal flavor.
“Fuck… Zykin…” Yong-Jin whimpered, his fingers tangling in the short, bristly blond hair. He wasn’t pushing him away; he was holding on, his knees trembling.
Zykin pulled off with a wet sound, his lips glistening. He looked up, his green eyes burning. “Say it again,” he commanded, his voice rough.
“Zykin,” Yong-Jin gasped.
A sharp smile touched the brutal mouth. “Good.” He went down again, deeper this time, his nose pressing into the dark thatch of hair at the base. Yong-Jin could feel the back of his throat, tight and willing. The obscene sight in the mirror—the powerful man on his knees, his own disheveled, half-naked form—sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core. He was rock-hard now, aching.
Zykin’s hands slid around to grip the cheeks of Yong-Jin’s ass, his fingers digging in. He hummed, the vibration traveling through Yong-Jin’s shaft, making his legs buckle. Zykin held him upright, relentless. He was setting a brutal pace, his own needs obvious in the strained bulge of his black trousers. This was worship as violence, devotion as degradation.
Yong-Jin felt the coil tighten in his gut, a swift, relentless build. “I’m… I’m going to…”
Zykin pulled off, leaving him wet and throbbing in the cold air. “Not yet.” He stood in one fluid motion, his own breathing slightly ragged. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding free with a whisper. He opened his trousers, freeing his own erection, thick and straining. He spat into his palm, a crude, efficient gesture, and slicked himself.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t prepare Yong-Jin any further. He turned him around, face-first against the cold mirror. Yong-Jin’s breath fogged the glass. His own wide, dark eyes stared back at him, blurred with shock and need. He saw Zykin’s reflection behind him, a monstrous, beautiful angel of vengeance, his tattooed arms bracketing Yong-Jin’s slimmer frame.
Zykin leaned over him, his chest against Yong-Jin’s back, his mouth at his ear. “Watch,” he whispered, the command a hot poison in Yong-Jin’s veins. “Watch me take what’s mine.”
He pushed inside.
The burn was instant, searing. Yong-Jin shouted, the sound muffled against his own reflection. He was too dry, too tight. Zykin didn’t stop. He pushed through the resistance with a single, steady, devastating stroke, seating himself to the hilt. Yong-Jin saw his own face contort in the mirror, saw the tears that sprang to his eyes from the shock and the stretch.
Zykin stilled, buried deep, letting Yong-Jin feel the full, splitting presence of him. He bit down on the juncture of Yong-Jin’s neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand. “You feel that?” he snarled, his hips giving a shallow grind. “That’s the truth. That’s the only thing that’s real. Me. In you.”
Then he moved.
It was a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming Yong-Jin’s chest against the unyielding glass. The mirror shook in its frame. The sound was filthy—skin slapping against skin, ragged breaths, Zykin’s low, guttural curses. “Fucking mine. This tight, perfect cunt is mine. Look at yourself. Look at what you are for me.”
Yong-Jin was sobbing, his tears making clean tracks through the fog on the mirror. It hurt. It was too much. And it was unlocking something feral deep within him. The fear, the helplessness, the sheer overwhelming force of Zykin’s possession—it fused into a blinding, white-hot need. He pushed back against the thrusts, meeting Zykin’s violence with a surrender that felt like its own kind of power.
“Yes,” he hissed, his accent thick. “Yes. Fuck. Right there.”
His submission was the trigger. Zykin’s control snapped. He fucked into him with a wild, desperate abandon, one hand fisting in Yong-Jin’s hair to pull his head back, exposing his throat to their reflections. His other hand snaked around Yong-Jin’s hip, finding his leaking cock and stroking it in time with his brutal thrusts.
The dual assault was too much. Yong-Jin’s orgasm ripped through him, violent and silent, his mouth open in a soundless scream as he came over Zykin’s hand and the pristine marble floor below. The clenching of his body dragged Zykin over the edge. He buried himself deep one final time, his roar muffled against Yong-Jin’s back as he pulsed inside him, his own release hot and endless.
The silence that followed was broken only by their harsh, ragged breaths fogging the mirror. Zykin slumped over him, his weight a heavy, anchoring warmth. He softened inside Yong-Jin, but didn’t pull out. He kept him pinned against the glass, his lips moving against the sweat-damp skin of his shoulder.
After a long minute, Zykin carefully withdrew. Yong-Jin swayed, his legs useless. Zykin caught him, turning him gently, holding him up. He looked into his dazed, tear-streaked face, then down at the mess between them.
Without a word, he reached for his discarded black turtleneck, pulling it over his head. He used the soft, expensive material to clean Yong-Jin’s stomach, his own hand, with a tenderness that contradicted everything that had just happened. He carefully pulled Yong-Jin’s trousers up, fastening them, smoothing the crumpled cashmere sweater down over his hips.
He dressed himself, then stood there, fully clothed once more, the Pakhan restored. He cupped Yong-Jin’s face, his thumb wiping away a last tear.
“The fitting,” he said, his voice hoarse but calm, as if the last ten minutes had been a scheduled meeting. “They will have clothes that fit you. Proper clothes. Not his.”
Yong-Jin understood. Not Litvinov’s grease-stained coveralls. Not borrowed sweaters. His clothes. Chosen by Zykin.
The silver-haired man re-entered, pushing a rack of garments. His eyes flicked to the smudged mirror, the slightly disordered room, and registered nothing. “Shall we begin, sir?”
Zykin gave Yong-Jin a slight push toward the rack. “Begin,” he said.
Yong-Jin walked on unsteady legs toward the waiting clothes, each step a little more solid. He felt raw, turned inside out, marked inside and out. In the countless reflections of the gilded mirrors, he saw a dozen versions of himself—a mechanic in a king’s cage, a trembling boy, a conquered territory. And in every one, standing just behind him, watching with unwavering green eyes, was the man who had broken a world apart just to put him back together in his own image. He reached for a shirt, his fingers no longer shaking.
He reached for a shirt, his fingers no longer shaking. The rack held a forest of fabrics, silks and wools in subtle, expensive shades. He flipped through them, the textures foreign against his calloused mechanic’s hands. He wasn’t used to people buying things for him.
Then he paused, and snorted.
He held out a long, slim piece of clothing draped in protective black cloth. He pulled it free. It was a skirt, made of heavy, ink-black silk, with a subtle ripple to its pleats. A laugh, brittle but real, escaped him. He held it up towards Zykin, who was watching from a gilded chair like a throne.
“This must be a mix-up,” Yong-Jin said, a grin tugging at his sore lips. “Or for you.” He shook the dark fabric lightly. “Do you need something for your collection?”
The silver-haired fitter froze, his face draining of color. He stared at the floor.
Zykin didn’t smile, but something warmed the Arctic ice of his eyes. He rose from the chair, the movement pure contained power. He took the skirt from Yong-Jin’s hand, his fingers brushing over the silk. “No mix-up,” he said, his voice low. “It is for you.”
Yong-Jin’s grin faded. He blinked. “For… me?”
“Do you like it?” Zykin asked, as if inquiring about a preferred brand of engine oil.
“It’s… it’s a skirt,” Yong-Jin stated, baffled.
“I know what it is.” Zykin closed the distance, the silk draped over his arm. He looked down at Yong-Jin, his gaze intense. “You have the legs for it. Narrow hips. It will look like night moving.” His free hand came up, thumb stroking Yong-Jin’s lower lip. “And I will enjoy taking it off you.”
A fresh, hot blush spread across Yong-Jin’s throat. He glanced at the horrified fitter, then back at Zykin. “I’m a mechanic,” he whispered.
“You are my mechanic,” Zykin corrected, his tone leaving no room for debate. He handed the skirt back. “Try it. With that.” He pointed to a simple, drapey charcoal sweater on the rack.
The fitter, seeing an escape, scurried forward. “The dressing room is here, sir.”
Zykin caught Yong-Jin’s wrist before he could follow. He leaned in, his voice a private rumble. “Wear it. Or wear nothing. But you will leave this room in clothes that bear no trace of the world before me.” He released him with a slight push.
In the mirrored cell of the dressing room, Yong-Jin stared at the garments in his hands. The silence pressed in, thick with the ghost of Zykin’s touch still aching between his legs. He peeled off the borrowed sweater and trousers, his body feeling oddly heavy. The black silk skirt felt shockingly light against his skin. He stepped into it, the material whispering over his thighs. It settled low on his hips, the pleats falling perfectly to just above his ankles. He pulled the soft, grey sweater on. It was oversized, the neckline sliding off one shoulder.
He looked in the mirror.
A stranger stared back. The clothes were beautiful, severe yet soft. They hid the new bruises, the faint fingerprints. They transformed him. He didn’t see a mechanic. He saw a possession, curated and displayed. A sharp, rebellious pang shot through him. He straightened his spine, lifting his chin at his reflection. Fine, he thought. Let him have his doll.
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out.
Zykin had resumed his seat. He was speaking low into a phone, his eyes sharp. “The garage is yours. Clean it out. Sell the tools.” He listened, then his gaze cut to Yong-Jin. It was a physical impact. The conversation on the phone ceased to exist. “Do it,” he said into the receiver, and ended the call without another word.
He stood, the phone vanishing into his pocket. He didn’t speak. He just looked, his gaze a slow, scorching inventory from the exposed line of Yong-Jin’s shoulder, down the drape of the sweater, over the sleek fall of the skirt. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the green.
“Turn,” he commanded, his voice thick.
Yong-Jin turned slowly, feeling the silk swirl against his bare legs. He heard Zykin’s sharp intake of breath. When he faced him again, Zykin was there, directly in front of him, his heat palpable.
“You look…” Zykin began, then stopped, as if the words had failed him. He reached out, his fingers tracing the neckline of the sweater, then sliding beneath the fabric to graze Yong-Jin’s collarbone. “You look like mine.”
He bent, hooking an arm behind Yong-Jin’s knees and lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Yong-Jin gasped, his arms flying around Zykin’s neck. Zykin carried him past the gaping fitter, through a door Yong-Jin hadn’t noticed, into a private adjoining room. It was a bedroom, all low lights and deeper shadows, dominated by a vast bed.
Zykin laid him on the duvet, the black silk of the skirt spreading beneath him like a shadow. He followed him down, braced on his arms, caging him in. “I just had you,” he murmured, his breath warm against Yong-Jin’s mouth. “Against a mirror. I was inside you five minutes ago. And I am already hard for you again.” He ground his hips down, letting Yong-Jin feel the rigid proof through his trousers.
The frank need in his words was more disarming than any command. Yong-Jin’s own body, spent and sore just moments before, sparked back to life. “You’re insatiable,” he breathed.
“For you, yes.” Zykin kissed him, deep and claiming. His hands pushed the soft sweater up, exposing Yong-Jin’s stomach and chest. His mouth followed, teeth scraping a nipple, making Yong-Jin arch off the bed.
But Zykin’s focus was lower. His hands smoothed over the silk at Yong-Jin’s hips, a stark contrast of rough skin on smooth fabric. He gripped the waistband. “This,” he growled against Yong-Jin’s belly, “is the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen.” He didn’t take the skirt off. He pushed it up, bunching the silk around Yong-Jin’s waist, exposing him completely from the hips down.
The vulnerability was absolute. Cool air hit his wetness, the ache from their earlier joining. Zykin knelt between his legs, spreading them wider with his shoulders. He didn’t use his mouth this time. He just looked, his gaze a hot, physical weight.
“Open yourself,” Zykin ordered, his voice ragged. “Show me.”
Yong-Jin’s face burned, but his hands, almost of their own volition, obeyed. He reached down, fingers trembling, and touched himself. He was slick, used, sensitive. He parted his own flesh, exposing the pink, swollen evidence of Zykin’s previous possession.
A raw, animal sound tore from Zykin’s throat. “Fuck. Yes.” He surged up, fumbling with his own clothes. He freed his cock, thick and angry-red, stroking himself once as he looked down at Yong-Jin’s displayed body. “Keep your hands there. Hold yourself open for me.”
Yong-Jin did, his heart hammering against his ribs. The submission was dizzying, shameful, electrifying.
Zykin positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Yong-Jin’s entrance. He paused, his control visibly fraying. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his eyes locked on where they were about to join. “Tell me you want my cock fucking you raw again.”
“I want it,” Yong-Jin whispered, the truth of it scalding him. “I want your cock. Please.”
Zykin drove in.
The stretch was immense, a burning, full ache. Yong-Jin cried out, his fingers digging into his own flesh. Zykin buried himself to the root in one relentless push, their bodies meeting with a wet, solid sound. He stayed there, impaling him, his big body shuddering.
“Look at you,” Zykin panted, his hips giving a shallow, involuntary grind. “My pretty thing in a silk skirt, stuffed full of me. Ruined for anyone else.” He began to move then, not with the frantic pace of before, but with deep, rolling thrusts that struck a nerve so deep it stole Yong-Jin’s breath. Each stroke was a claim, a punctuation mark.
The skirt pooled around Yong-Jin’s waist was a soft, mocking contrast to the brutality of the act. Zykin gripped his hips, fingers biting into bone, and fucked into him with a steady, devastating rhythm. The sound was obscene—the slick, wet slap of skin, Zykin’s ragged grunts, the soft rustle of silk with every drive of his hips.
“Come for me,” Zykin snarled, his pace quickening, becoming punishing. “Come on my cock like a good boy. Let me feel you.”
It built too fast, a torrent he couldn’t fight. The command, the deep friction, the sheer overwhelming possession—it coiled and snapped. Yong-Jin came with a shattered cry, his back bowing, his release striping his stomach and the bunched silk of the skirt. The clenching of his body pulled Zykin over the edge. He slammed home, crushing Yong-Jin into the mattress, and roared as he emptied himself deep inside, his thrusts turning jerky, prolonging the pulses of his own pleasure.
He collapsed atop him, a crushing, welcome weight. They lay tangled, the only sound their labored breathing and the rustle of silk. Zykin nuzzled into Yong-Jin’s neck, his lips against the pulse point. “My crown,” he murmured, the words muffled, soaked in satisfaction.
After long minutes, he rolled off, pulling Yong-Jin against his side. The skirt, rumpled and stained, was still rucked around his waist. Zykin’s hand smoothed over the silky fabric on Yong-Jin’s thigh. “You’ll wear this home,” he stated, his voice already slipping back into the cadence of command.
Yong-Jin, boneless and drifting, just nodded into his shoulder. Outside, the city glittered, a kingdom of shadows and neon. Here, in this perfumed room high above it all, he wore the uniform of his conquest. And for the first time, the weight of it felt less like a chain, and more like an anchor.