Milo felt like his body was broken into small pieces. His bones were cracked in several places, and the pain did not stop. For three days, he stayed in his bed without moving. He could not move even if he wanted to.
A doctor ca several tis to change his bandages and give him dicine. Milo knew that Nero did not call the doctor because he was kind. Nero did it because Milo was his property. If Milo died, Nero would lose his favorite toy. Nero needed him to stay alive so he could continue to use him. Milo understood this very well.
Whatever it was, Milo didn’t care.
The pain in his ribs and back was excruciating. Every breath he took felt like a sharp object was pressing into his lungs.
The excruciating pain made Milo think about dying, because it seed that death would be more relieving than living in Nero’s hell.
He had thought about it many tis, but he still couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to die yet. There were many things he still wanted to do.
He was twenty years old. He wanted to be free, to go wherever he wanted, to have friends. Most importantly, he wanted to work and have his own money.
Could he do it? Just once. He wanted to feel the free air without Nero’s shackles.
Milo groaned. He felt thirsty. But now, even getting up to get a drink of water made his whole body ache. He shifted slightly, and his chest hurt.
His body was covered in bandages. He couldn’t move his hands. He looked more like a mummy than a living human being. Ah, in this house he was not a human being; his life was lower than that of a pet.
The door opened, and Milo imdiately tensed up. He glanced over, his body trembling.
Pedro, the young servant in the mansion—a kind-hearted man—walked over. His face looked gloomy and concerned when he saw Milo’s condition. In his hands he carried a tray of food.
"Don’t move. Do you need sothing?" asked Pedro.
"Thirsty," whispered Milo weakly. His voice was very soft.
"Wait!" Pedro placed the tray on the nightstand, poured water into a glass, and sat on the edge of the bed to help Milo drink.
"Thanks," said Milo after finishing two glasses of water.
Pedro stared intently at Milo, smiling bitterly. "Feel better?" he asked softly, brushing Milo’s hair from his forehead.
"I’m dying. So much pain," Milo moaned.
"Nero is so cruel to you. But why did you run away? You know he will always find you," said Pedro.
"I’m just stupid."
Pedro stared at Milo’s body, which was covered in bandages with bloodstains. In addition, the young man’s body was completely exposed. He wanted so badly to give Milo a warm blanket, but Nero had strictly forbidden anyone from giving him pillows or blankets.
"I hope everything will get better for you. I just wish Nero will forgive you," Pedro said sincerely.
Milo took a deep breath. He didn’t know. The Nero he knew was rciless. Maybe tomorrow the man would decide to kill him—who knows?
Pedro grabbed a bowl of oats mixed with bananas and milk from the table. "Eat sothing," he said, bringing a spoonful of food to Milo’s mouth.
Milo opened his mouth, and at that mont the door swung open. He imdiately turned his head. This ti, he felt his heart stop.
Nero walked quickly into the room. His gaze was sharp and fierce as he looked at Pedro.
"What are you doing here?!" he shouted.
Pedro imdiately stood up, bowing respectfully. "I-I just brought him so food, sir."
Nero didn’t look away, as if he was ready to devour Pedro alive.
"You brought him food and sat down on his bed? How dare you touch my pet?"
Pedro bowed his head. "I didn’t touch him, I swear!"
Nero walked closer, pushing Pedro until the man was forced backward. "How long have you been working here? Do you think I didn’t see you touch him?"
Pedro gulped. He didn’t know how Nero knew he had touched Milo. He cursed himself for forgetting how crazy and possessive Nero was about Milo.
"Get out! Pack your things! Tell everyone what you did to get fired. I don’t want anyone else making the sa mistake!" Nero snapped.
Pedro clenched his fists. He had expected this to happen when Nero looked angry earlier. But still, he felt he was being treated unfairly. However, what could he do?
Milo swallowed hard and looked at Pedro. What should he do so that the man wouldn’t get fired?
If he spoke up and defended Pedro, Nero would beco even more brutal. He might get new injuries, and Pedro might experience sothing unpleasant.
So he remained silent.
Pedro left. Nero looked at Milo and sat on the edge of the bed. He checked Milo’s wounds. "Getting better."
Then his hand moved down, and Milo tensed up.
Milo groaned when he felt Nero’s fingers open his asshole. "Ahhh, it hurts..."
"Still hurt?"
Milo remained silent. The man knew what had happened to his body after three days of relentless pounding.
Milo was even sure that Nero had co to torture him again and fuck him. But the man just stared at him for a few minutes.
"How is it? Do you want to run away again?" Nero asked.
Milo imdiately shook his head, his eyes watering. "No, no. I promise I won’t do it again! Please... I’m sorry... I was, I was just stupid."
Nero grinned at the fear in Milo’s eyes. That was what he wanted, absolute obedience.
"I’ll forgive you if you do one job for ."
Milo swallowed hard. Anything would be better than feeling the torture every day.
"I will take you to et Salvatore Portello. You will spend a night with him. And tell if you see a number on his chest. If he will die soon or not," Nero said.
Milo was silent. He just nodded. That was easy.
"And you will tell the truth, or you will know what happens if you try to fool ," Nero continued.
Milo nodded. "I-I will do it."
Nero smiled, bringing his face so close that Milo could feel the heat of his breath.
Milo flinched, anticipating a blow, his heart hamring against his cracked ribs, but Nero only leaned in further.
Nero smirked, savoring the way Milo’s body turned to stone beneath his touch. To him, Milo wasn’t just a person, he was his finest possession, a masterpiece he had spent thirteen years breaking.
With a sudden, sharp movent, Nero squeezed Milo’s jaw, his fingers digging into the bruised skin until Milo’s mouth was forced open.
"Ngh," Milo groaned, tensing up even more. His chest was beating very fast.
"Quiet," Nero said, staring at Milo’s perfect nose, which was now bruised. His cheeks, which were usually rosy, were now bruised in several places.
Milo was handso—very handso. Nero was proud to have him. And those bruises made him even more proud. That Milo was his. Only he could touch him, mark him, defile him.
Milo swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn’t move.
Nero brought his lips closer. He didn’t wait for permission. He claid Milo’s tongue, kissing him with a predatory hunger. It was a hot, suffocating kiss designed to remind Milo exactly who owned his breath.
Milo was forced to accept it and kiss him back.
"A very good bitch."
Nero finally pulled away. He trailed a finger over Milo’s swollen lip, his eyes dark with sick satisfaction.
"Don’t forget the taste of your master, Milo," he whispered, his voice smooth and terrifying. "Salvatore might borrow you for a night, but every inch of your skin is already marked with my na. If you look at him, rember that I am the one who lets you live."
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