Atticus let his head drop against the lip of the unusually large bath, gaze going to the ajar door. He didn’t hear any movement, just the dull buzz of voices. He must be talking to Mary. Maybe finding out what had happened while he had been distracted. New guests, new letters, new problems. There was never any respite from it. Atti sighed, knowing he should finish quickly, get out, be useful.<br/><br/>Be irreplaceable.<br/><br/>…<em>I'm not going to send you away from the Teahouse, from my services</em>…<br/><br/>His hand tightened on the sponge, sending a cascade of warm water and suds down his chest. It was a seduction. He knew it was. Master Ryan knew his fear. It was a cruel thing for him to play on it.<br/><br/>…<em>I'm also not going to <strong>allow </strong>you to leave</em>…<br/><br/>He let his breath out in a sigh, rubbing his collarbones and shoulders, the fresh cut on his throat stinging as he dragged and caught it. He pressed the sponge against it, shutting his eyes, remembering the Master’s mouth there. Taking from him. Giving him his mark.<br/><br/>Just a little scratch, cleanly healed, fast fading. It was like… getting a flower. Something brief to be treasured while it lasted. A reminder of who had given it.<br/><br/>Fuck, he knew better than seeing romantic gestures in a fucking<em>cut</em>. It was only some fun, a pass time. Scratching a mutual itch. It wasn’t anything.<br/><br/>…<em>You see, I am under the impression you're <strong>mine</strong>, Louis</em>...<br/><br/>Atticus tore off his eyepatch and tossed it across the room to the pile of his clothes, opening his eyes once more, the water sloshing with his agitated, sudden movement. Of<em>course </em>he was Master Ryan’s, he held the contract. That was all he was saying. That was all it meant. That was all. That was all.<br/><br/>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he mouthed, only the barest hiss escaping him. Absinthe. He needed to have some, or never touch it again. His mind was the playground of the green fairy.<br/><br/>Master Ryan had only been playing. Like with the knife. Seeing what broke the skin, what drew blood. What he could feel.<br/><br/>…<em>If you ever dare leave me, Louis…I'll have to hunt you down and bring you back</em>…<br/><br/>He swirled the sponge in the water then rubbed languidly at his belly, his skin tingling and his cock giving a throb from the memory of the tone he had used, a blade wrapped in the sheerest of silk. Pressing to his most vulnerable spot. Did he know how weak Atticus really was?<br/><br/>He might.<br/><br/>His eyes drifted shut again, feeling again that bite to his ear, the nibbles, the silk-steel words. The drag of that hair – perhaps he’d be able to feel it better on tender skin? – mmm, flogging, that would do it. His skin always was so sensitive after a slow, steady lashing. He would be able to feel every single stand, every drop of sweat…<br/><br/><em>‘I warned you, Louis. You knew what would happen. Now, are you sorry?’</em><br/><br/>His hand pressed the sponge lower, his breath catching as he closed its softness around his shaft. “Yes…” he murmured, then bit his lip, imagining Master Ryan doing it again, hard, and he tasted blood, the pain of it jolting through him.<br/><br/><em>‘Not with words.’</em><br/><br/>His free hand trailed up his chest, to his nipple – pox, he’d taken out that bar… he’d have to put it back. Maybe he could get Master Ryan to do it…<br/><br/>…give him a lasting mark…<br/><br/>…<strong><em>Mine</em></strong>…<br/><br/>“Master,” he moaned softly, his hand leaving his empty nipple to the cut, stroking it in time to the slow rubs of the sponge.<br/>