Chapter 139: A Moment of Peace
Salvatore stayed still for a moment, catching his breath against Milo’s neck. Then he pulled back slightly, one hand sliding down between them, and Milo’s whole body jolted at the touch.
"M-master—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you," Salvatore murmured, his voice rough but steady.
Milo’s hands gripped his arms again, nails digging in as his hips moved on instinct. It didn’t take long.
Salvatore knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use, and within moments Milo was crying out, his back arching one final time before he went completely limp against the sheets, chest heaving.
Salvatore watched him for a second, something soft passing over his face, before he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to Milo’s forehead.
"Good boy," he said quietly.
Milo could only manage a weak hum in response, his eyes half-closed, his body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks.
Salvatore unbuckled the leather cuffs first, rubbing gently at the red marks left on Milo’s wrists, checking them with the same careful attention he gave everything else.
Then, without a word, he slid one arm under Milo’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him clean off the bed.
Milo let out a small, surprised sound. "Sir, I can walk."
"You can barely lift your head right now," Salvatore said, carrying him toward the bathroom. "Don’t argue."
He set Milo down carefully on the edge of the tub, ran the water until it was warm, and helped clean him up with the same unhurried patience he always did, ignoring Milo’s half-hearted protests that he could do it himself.
When it was done, he carried him back to the bedroom, laid him down, and pulled the blanket up over his bare shoulders.
Milo knew the same routine by now. He just still wasn’t used to it yet.
"Try to rest and sleep," Salvatore said.
Milo blinked up at him, watching as Salvatore straightened and walked toward the closet, pulling out a clean shirt and starting to dress. Milo sat up slightly, holding the blanket against his thighs.
"Are you going somewhere?" he asked. "You seem very busy."
"If I don’t take care of things myself, I can’t even breathe in peace," Salvatore said, buttoning his shirt without looking over.
Milo shifted, sitting up fully now, the blanket pooling around his waist. He watched Salvatore move around the room, pulling on his belt, checking his jacket pocket for something, always in motion, always working, and something in his chest ached quietly.
"Sir... you have everything," Milo said, "but you can’t enjoy yourself."
Salvatore paused. He turned, and for a moment his expression was unreadable. Then he crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Milo into a hug.
"Sweet boy, you’re worried about me now?"
Milo went easily, resting his head against his chest. He just sighed.
"You know, I hate this," Salvatore said, his voice lower now, quieter. "If it weren’t because of my parents, to take back what belongs to us, I would never have touched this world."
Milo pulled back just enough to look at him. "You know... I’m always grateful that you found me, Sir. You might not be the kindest man in the world, but you treat me like a human. I really wish that you’re always happy."
Salvatore looked at him for a long moment, something shifting behind his gray eyes, and then he smiled, a real smile, small but genuine.
"As I told you," he said, "it might be the reason we found each other."
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Milo’s forehead, then his tone changed, turning careful, deliberate. "By the way, do you know someone in your old house who looked like a witch?"
Milo frowned, looking down as he tried to remember. He shook his head slowly, uncertain, and then stopped, thinking harder.
"We used to play in a field near the house," he said. "And then I remember we used to be scared of a house on the corner. And people used to call her the ugly witch. But I’m sure by now she’s dead. She was already old when I was a kid."
"But do you remember anything about her? Did you ever meet her?"
Milo shook his head again, firmer this time. "No, never. We always avoided meeting her. I was so scared too."
Salvatore nodded slowly, watching Milo’s face the entire time. "You said your uncle brought you to Nero, right?"
"Yes," Milo said, tilting his head. "Why, Sir?"
"Nothing. Just confirming." Salvatore’s tone stayed even, casual. "We visited your old house today, and we met a crazy old woman."
Milo’s eyes widened slightly. "Crazy? What did she do?"
"Just crazy things," Salvatore said, and left it there.
He didn’t mention what the woman had said about Milo. He filed it away instead, somewhere behind his eyes, somewhere Milo couldn’t reach.
"But she didn’t hurt you, right?" Milo asked, sitting up a little straighter, real concern in his voice now.
Salvatore let out a short laugh. "I would shoot her before she even laid a hand on me, Milo. Don’t you remember who I am?"
Milo chuckled softly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Oh yes. I forgot for a moment."
Salvatore leaned in and kissed him, slow and passionate. "Just try to sleep."
"Can I go with you?" Milo asked when he pulled back.
"Of course not."
Milo pouted, the answer landing so bluntly it almost stung. "Why? I could be useful if you were in danger."
"I do like you, Milo," Salvatore said, standing up and reaching for his jacket. "Don’t get me wrong. But I don’t trust your ability to protect me."
Milo pouted harder. "I’m not that bad."
"You don’t even know how to shoot well."
"We did it, and I did well."
"Yes, with paper targets."
Milo sighed dramatically, falling back against the pillow. "But Sir, I’m not sleepy yet."
"Do whatever you want," Salvatore said, checking his reflection briefly in the mirror before turning back to him. "You can go back to your room if you want. It’s still too early to sleep anyway."
"Yes..." Milo mumbled, though he made no move to get up.
Salvatore walked back over, sitting on the edge of the bed one more time. "How is your hole?"
Milo’s cheeks went pink. "I think it’s stretched open too wide now."
Salvatore chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Remind me to take it easy. I can’t hold myself back. I really want to do it every day."
Milo’s cheeks brightened further, a small, pleased smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.
Then Salvatore stood, gave him one last look, and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Milo lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head: the witch, the old house, the field he barely remembered.
It all felt distant, like pieces of someone else’s life. He pushed the thought aside eventually and sat up, gathering his clothes scattered across the floor.
He got dressed slowly, still a little sore, still a little warm all over from everything that had happened. He stayed in the room a bit longer, just sitting on the edge of the bed, before finally deciding to head downstairs.
Maybe Teo would be in the kitchen. Milo was hungry again, and talking to Teo always made him laugh.
He had difficulty walking. But he made his way down the hallway and to the stairs.
Before he reached the first step of the stairs, he heard voices from the living room, counting, sharp and rhythmic.
He looked down and saw the guards lined up on the floor, doing push-ups, sweat already soaking through their shirts.
It gave him a strange sense of déjà vu. The first day he met Salvatore, he’d seen this exact scene, the same guards maybe, the same push-ups, the same counting.
Back then he’d been terrified, unsure of everything, unsure if he’d survive the night. Now he stood at the top of the stairs and just watched, almost amused by how much had changed since then, how different it all felt from the inside.
He spotted Roderick among them, counting along with the rest, and Joe a little farther down the line. Milo smiled faintly and kept walking down, planning to slip past them toward the kitchen.
That was when he heard Salvatore’s voice, sharp and clearly annoyed, cutting through the room.
"Really, really disappointing! It’s been months and nobody can trace Macron?"
The guards kept counting, none of them breaking rhythm, none of them daring to look up.
Milo stopped in his tracks. He’d heard that name before.
Macron.
The name had been mentioned more than once now, always in the same tense, urgent tone. He stood frozen at the base of the stairs, his hunger forgotten.
Macron was Salvatore’s cousin, right?
Before Milo reached the bottom of the stairs, Salvatore saw him.
"Milo, good, you are here. Seems you need exercise too. Come down. Do push-ups with the others. One hundred."
Milo blinked, caught completely off guard. "Wait, what? Me?"
Salvatore turned fully toward him now, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, clearly not in the mood for negotiation. "Yes, you. Come down."
The guards, still counting their own set, glanced sideways at Milo with something between sympathy and amusement.
Roderick didn’t even bother hiding his grin.
"But Sir, I just—" Milo started, gesturing vaguely toward the stairs, toward the fact that he’d barely been able to walk straight. His hole was so painful. His thighs were tense.
"No excuses," Salvatore said flatly, pointing at the empty spot on the floor beside Joe. "Come. Now."
Milo groaned, dragging his feet slowly down the last step, shooting Salvatore a look of pure betrayal as he got into position on the floor. His arms were already protesting before he’d done a single one.
"One," Salvatore counted, watching him with the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Comments