Chapter 17: The Lesson
He’d cooked for him. That was the thought that looped in Yong-Jin’s head, ridiculous and profound. The Tsar of the Moscow Bratva, a man whose hands had painted his walls green and carved bloody paths to a throne, had spent an afternoon under the harsh lights of a kitchen he likely never used. The evidence was spread before them on the black lacquer table: stone bowls of bibimbap still sizzling from the oven-hot stone, glazed galbi glistening with sesame, a half-dozen banchan arranged with an assassin’s precision in small porcelain dishes. It was a tombstone feast. The room, heavy with incense and the ghost of betrayal from previous, less fortunate guests, felt less like a dining hall and more like a stage for a ritual.
“You must hold them like this,” Yong-Jin said, his voice soft against the oppressive silence. He reached over, his fingers gentle as he adjusted Zykin’s grip on the stainless-steel chopsticks. The sight was surreal: the massive, tattooed hand, knuckles scarred, holding the delicate utensils as if they were unexploded ordnance. “Thumb here.Not so tight. You are not strangling them.”
Zykin’s gaze wasn’t on the chopsticks. It was fixed on the line of Yong-Jin’s throat, the flutter of his pulse visible beneath pale skin. His attention was a physical pressure. “They are disobedient,” he muttered.
“They are sticks,” Yong-Jin replied, a smile tugging at his lips. He guided Zykin’s hand toward a piece of bulgogi. The meat slipped, clattering back onto the plate.
A second attempt sent a julienned carrot skittering across the lacquer. A failed grab at a mushroom. Yong-Jin watched the man’s brow furrow, a storm gathering in those green eyes.It was too much. The sheer, bizarre domesticity of it, the contrast of this lethal giant fumbling with food he’d made… a bubble of laughter escaped him. It was a brief, breathless giggle, instantly stifled, but it hung in the incense-thick air like a slap.
Zykin went utterly still.
The chopsticks clattered to the table. The sound was sharper than a gunshot in the quiet room. In a movement too fast to track, Zykin’s hand snapped out, wrapping around Yong-Jin’s bicep. He was hauled from his chair, his hip crashing into the table’s edge, rattling the dishes. Then he was pinned, the small of his back pressed against the unforgiving cool of the black lacquer, Zykin’s immense body caging him in.
“You laugh,” Zykin whispered, the words a venomous curl of smoke. His face was inches away, the candlelight carving deep valleys into his scars. “You laugh at your Tsar?”
Yong-Jin’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was the other side of the man who had tenderly soothed paint from his skin.This was the blade. “No, I wasn’t—”
“You were.” Zykin’s free hand came up, not to strike, but to pluck a piece of the glistening bulgogi from the plate. He held it between his thumb and forefinger. “Open.”
The command brooked no refusal. Yong-Jin parted his lips. Zykin fed him the meat, his finger deliberately dragging across Yong-Jin’s lower lip, slick with sauce. The gesture was possessive, intimate to the point of violation. Yong-Jin chewed, the flavors exploding on his tongue—sweet, savory, smoky—all underscored by the metallic taste of his own fear.
“Good?” Zykin’s voice had dropped to a gravelly murmur.
Yong-Jin nodded, unable to speak.
Zykin’s eyes darkened. His hand left Yong-Jin’s arm and slid down his side, over his hip, coming to rest on his thigh. The fabric of his trousers was a feeble barrier. “You teach me your tools,” Zykin said, his fingers digging in, claiming the muscle beneath. “Now let me teach you mine.”
He pushed. It wasn’t a gentle motion. Yong-Jin was bent backward over the table, his spine arched, the dishes digging into his back. Zykin’s mouth crashed down on his, a conquering kiss that tasted of garlic, ginger, and pure dominion. It stole the air from Yong-Jin’s lungs. His hands flew up, tangling in Zykin’s short-cropped hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world tipped.
With brutal efficiency, Zykin’s hands worked at his belt, then his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud. Cold air hit Yong-Jin’s stomach, then his cock, already half-hard with a traitorous mix of terror and arousal. His trousers were yanked down to his thighs, constricting his legs. There was no preamble, no gentle preparation. Zykin spat into his own palm, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself. He was already fully erect, a thick, veined weight in his hand.
“Look at me,” Zykin growled, positioning himself.
Yong-Jin’s eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his. He saw the raw, unfiltered hunger there, a devotion that bordered on madness.
He thrust.
The invasion was brutal, a white-hot lance of pain and fullness that forced a choked scream from Yong-Jin’不对 throat. He wasn’t ready. The stretch was agonizing, tearing through the tender aftermath of their bath. The polished wood of the table was unforgiving against his back, the edges of the stone bowls a dull pressure.
“Fuck,” Zykin hissed, his head dropping forward, his body shuddering with the effort to hold still. “God, you’re so tight. Like a fucking fist.”
He began to move. Short, sharp, punishing strokes