Chapter 4: Dreamscape
The memory of the scent wouldn’t leave him.
It clung to his overcoat, a phantom in the wool. Zykin sat in the back of the armored sedan, the city lights bleeding across the tinted window, his fingers absently tracing the spot on his chest. He’d cancelled three meetings. Had merely stared at financial reports without seeing the numbers. The world had receded, its sounds muffled, its colors dulled, next to the blazing clarity of that single moment on the ice.
He ordered the car to the banya he owned, a private, fortified palace of heat and stone. He needed to sweat it out. To purge the unsettling tremor in his hands.
The attendant bowed wordlessly and vanished as Zykin entered the main chamber. It was a gilded cavern, steam hanging in dense clouds that swirled around the black marble veins. He stripped, the intricate tattoos sprawling across his torso and arms—a map of loyalty paid for in blood—glowing in the dim, amber light. He poured water over the scorching rocks. A hissing roar erupted, and a wave of blistering, cedar-scented steam engulfed him.
He sat on the highest bench, the heat searing his lungs, his skin prickling with instant sweat. He closed his eyes, seeking the punishing purity of the burn.
Instead, he found Yong-Jin.
It began as it had on the street: the surprised gasp, the stumble forward. But in the steam, there was no ice to separate them. Yong-Jin fell against him, and this time, Zykin did not let him step back. His hands, massive and sure, slid around that narrow waist, holding him in place. The mechanic’s work clothes were gone. It was just smooth, golden skin, slick with condensation.
“You’re cold,” Zykin heard himself say in the dream, his voice a low rasp that echoed off the wet stone.
“N-no, I’m… it’s hot in here,” Yong-Jin murmured, his face tipped up, eyes wide and dark. His hands came to rest on Zykin’s tattooed shoulders, not pushing away, but balancing. The touch was electric.
Zykin’s thumb stroked the dip of Yong-Jin’s spine. “You are trembling.”
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over the delicate shell of Yong-Jin’s ear. “I can warm you.” He didn’t ask. His hands moved, one sliding up the strong, compact plane of Yong-Jin’s back, the other dipping lower, grasping the full, perfect curve of his ass. He squeezed, feeling the muscle tense, then yield.
A soft, choked sound escaped Yong-Jin’s lips.
That sound. Zykin chased it. He captured Yong-Jin’s mouth with his own, a claiming kiss, deep and wet and hungry. It wasn’t gentle. It was possession. His tongue pushed past plush lips, tasting phantom coffee and something uniquely sweet. Yong-Jin gasped into his mouth, his body arching, his own tongue meeting Zykin’s with a shy, then desperate, pressure.
The dream accelerated, a feverish montage of touch. Zykin’s mouth traveled down the column of Yong-Jin’s throat, sucking a dark mark into the tender skin above his collarbone. His hands were everywhere, mapping every ridge and hollow—the tight stomach, the sensitive nipples that pebbled under his calloused fingers, the slim hips.
He turned Yong-Jin around, pressing his front against the hot, slick marble wall. The mechanic was panting now, little pleasured sobs echoing in the steamy chamber. Zykin leaned over him, a cage of muscle and want, his cock—hard and thick and aching—pressed against the cleft of Yong-Jin’s ass.
“Please,” Yong-Jin whispered, his accent thicker with desire.
“Please what?” Zykin growled, biting his shoulder. “Use your words.”
“I need… I need you to fuck me.” The vulgarity from that soft mouth was the most erotic thing Zykin had ever heard.
He spit into his palm, a crude, necessary gesture, and slicked himself. He wasn’t kind. He guided the broad head of his cock to Yong-Jin’s tight entrance and pushed.
A sharp cry. A tearing, blissful stretch. Then he was buried to the hilt, sheathed in searing, impossible heat. Yong-Jin was so tight it stole his breath. He stayed there, pulsing inside him, feeling every minute clench around his length.
“Fuck,” Zykin cursed, his voice ragged. “You feel like heaven made just for me.”
He withdrew slowly, then slammed back in. Yong-Jin cried out, his fingers scrambling against the marble. Zykin set a brutal, punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting the smaller man forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with their ragged breaths and the dripping condensation. He wrapped one hand around Yong-Jin’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim, while the other reached around to stroke his cock, which was leaking and hard.
“You take it so well,” Zykin snarled into his ear. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. You are mine now. Say it.”
“Yours,” Yong-Jin sobbed, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust. “Yours, yours…”
The coil in Zykin’s gut tightened unbearably. His strokes became erratic, desperate. He could feel Yong-Jin’s muscles fluttering around him, his own release imminent. “Come for me,” he commanded, twisting his hand on Yong-Jin’s cock. “Come all over this wall. Show me.”
With a shattered cry, Yong-Jin obeyed, his body convulsing, his release painting hot stripes on the dark stone. The violent clenching pushed Zykin over the edge. He drove in one last, deep time, roaring as he emptied himself inside that gripping heat, his vision whiting out.
Zykin’s eyes flew open.
He was alone on the bench, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin sheened with real sweat. The satiation of the dream evaporated instantly, leaving a hollow, aching want so profound it felt like a physical wound.
He looked down. A traitorous streak of his own release stained the cedar wood beneath him.
A wave of fury, hot and shameful, crashed over him. Not at the dream, but at its end. At the waking emptiness. He was a Pakhan, a Tsar. He took what he wanted. He did not jerk off alone in a sauna, haunted by a ghost.
The obsession crystallized into a single, irrefutable command.
He stood, the cold air of the antechamber hitting his feverish skin. He dressed with slow, deliberate movements. The decision was made. The careful, distant observation was over. The plan had always been inadequate. It was not a car or a chance meeting he needed to engineer.
It was the man.
Anton was waiting by the car, his expression neutral. Zykin slid into the back seat, the leather cold against his skin.
“The mechanic,” Zykin said, his voice quiet and final. “Ru Yong-Jin. I want his life on my desk by dawn. Everything. Who he sees. What he eats. Where he sleeps. What he dreams about.” He met Anton’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “And clear my schedule for tomorrow night.”
Anton nodded, understanding the shift immediately. The time for watching was over.
“Where are we going tomorrow night, boss?”
Zykin looked out at the passing city, the ghost of a kiss still burning on his lips. “To claim what’s mine.”