Chapter 5: Arrival at the Threshold
Before Michael looms a large manor, an imposing structure etched against the reddening evening sky. He stands at the door, a disheveled wreck, his navy jacket streaked with grime and perspiration. His hands hold the black card quivering in his grip. His thumb traces the address he's praying he found, ink blurred from his relentless rubbing. The doorbell's chime reverberates, a mournful note lost in the expanse, and his breath grows jagged with anticipation as he waits.
The door groans open, revealing a man in a pristine black suit, dark hair swept back, with a stance as rigid as iron. Michael's gut twists. He's an unmitigated mess, rumpled and unraveling, nothing like this polished figure. Panic surges, doubt exploding in his mind. Has he misjudged? Stumbled into the wrong place?
But before his doubt can bloom any further, the man speaks. "Ah, Michael. Right on time," he says, voice sleek and laced with expectation. "Of course," he adds, almost to himself. His keen eyes scan Michael, narrowing at the chaos before him. Before Michael can choke out an excuse, the man advances, hands brusquely reaching out to wrestle with his jacket, brushing off grit, tugging the collar, smoothing creases in a frantic, futile dance. He grimaces at the meager results of his efforts and pivots sharply. "Quickly now," he says, gesturing inward. "It's bad enough you've turned up like a stray. Let's not keep Mystic waiting too."
Mystic. The name strikes a spark in his chest. Obsession flares, twisting with fear, reverence, dread, a tempest he can't tame threatening to take him over. His vision swims as the grand hall engulfs him, marble floors shimmering beneath a chandelier's icy gleam. A sudden jab to his ribs yanks him back. The man scowls, impatience hardening his features. "I know, I know, her effects can be quite overwhelming," he says tersely, "but I'm not risking punishment because you're mooning like some overgrown pup."
Punishment. The word sinks into him like a lead weight in his stomach. The bus, the world leaching into gray, her disapproval. If she could do that, what else might she be capable of? His pulse hammering in his ears, he lurches after the man, legs unsteady, down a corridor where countless doors seem to murmur secrets as he passes.
They enter a chamber, cloaked in deep reds and blacks. His gaze locks on her instantly. Mystic stands by a towering window, peering into the twilight grounds, her form a sharp cutout against the fading light. She pours a dark liquid, wine perhaps, from a crystal decanter, her motions languid and precise. The black sweater hugs her frame and her nails, red and black as before but featuring brand new designs, clink softly against the glass, a sound like tiny bells. Turning, the air grows dense, charged. He's here, she thinks to herself, a flicker of satisfaction warming her core, right where I want him.
Michael doesn't think. His knees buckle, slamming into the floor, his body quaking like a storm-tossed branch. "I'm here," he croaks, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.
Her boots tap out a steady cadence as she approaches, each step ringing in his head. "Oh, for pity's sake, get up," she says, exasperation heavy in her tone. "I didn't tell you to grovel, did I? And look at you, filthy and frayed. You're so easily undone. Have you even washed or slept since last we met?" She presses fingers to her temples, hair spilling like ink over her knuckles, and calls out, eyes on him with a look that makes him want to evaporate, "Grayson, get him cleaned up and to his room, will you?" Hmmmm, he seems more fragile than I remember him, she muses to herself.
The man, Grayson, seizes Michael's arm, hustling him down a series of hallways and shoving him into a tiled bath where steam already hangs in the air from a hissing shower. The water flows, relentless, washing over him as his mind spins. I'm here. What's her game? He can't help but wonder. The old prick on his neck stings faintly, a ghost of her mark. The robe Grayson tosses him is thick and dry, rough against his raw nerves, and he trails after him through halls that hum with her essence. They reach a modest room, the door creaking open.
And again, there she is. Perched on a narrow bed's edge, legs crossed, nails scoring faint lines into the quilt. "Get in," she says, voice implying no room for argument. He sinks onto the mattress, heart pounding. She leans in, her scent slicing through the air, as she presses a nail, cool as glass, onto his forehead. He passes out immediately. His large frame collapses as tension from the long days of anguish is expelled. "Sleep now, you'll need it for what's coming," she says to the slumbering form.
Chapter 6: Echoes of Dominion
Michael jolts awake, breaths heaving, the urge to bolt clawing at him before he can stop it. He braces for the gray despair, the crushing weight, but it doesn't descend. Confusion replaces it, muddy and thick, but there's no time to unravel it. Grayson's at the door, crisp and curt. "Come on." The halls twist, a maze of stone and shadow, cool air brushing his skin as they weave through until they reach a sunlit breakfast room. Mystic sits at a long table's head, a plate of fruit and pastries before her, nails drumming a faint tune on the wood.
"Sleep well?" she asks, a smirk teasing her lips as she skewers a strawberry. Her tone's light, taunting, but her eyes cut deep, watching. She thinks, He's still soft, pliant, good.
"Yeah," Michael mutters, easing into a chair, still foggy. The world feels steady, no gloom, no punishment for the defiance flickering in his mind. He thinks, I could leave. He waits. Nothing. Just her fork's clink, Grayson's rustle at a curtain. Has her effect been lifted, or worn off? He wants to ask but fears the return of that oppressive power more than he is curious.
They chat, trivial things, the weather, the manor's age, the coffee's blend. Michael relaxes, bit by bit, until Mystic sets her cup down with a sharp clink. "Finally," she says, standing. "We can start the tour. You're steady enough to see it now." She thinks, Let's peel back the layers, see what I'm working with.
She guides him through arched doors, up curling stairs, her voice spinning tales, old owners, vanished wealth, hints of shadow beneath. He follows, half-caught in her rhythm, the echo of her words lulling him as they pass tapestries frayed with time and banisters worn smooth. They halt at a plain wooden door, unremarkable amid the rest. She's speaking, something about the east wing's renewal, when her nails, sharp as a blade, graze the wood, a careless scrape. A male scream erupts, quiet and dull through the door, but it rips through Michael's mind nevertheless.
Michael stiffens, blood fleeing his face. Mystic doesn't falter. Her voice rolls on, unbroken, praising the doorframes' craft as if the cry never sounded. Her nails lift, hovering, then fall away. She thinks, Let him wonder, a quiet thrill at his frozen stare. The scream dies, smothered by the manor's hush, but it gnaws at Michael's mind like a living beast. He pieces it together, the bus's gray shroud, Grayson's dread of punishment, this unheeded wail. She's not just his puppetmaster. Someone else suffers, a price for defiance in all likelihood. His neck flares, the old mark burning, and he knows this is her domain, her will, and he's only scratched its surface.
Chapter 7: The Inspection
The tour drifts on, a haze of dim halls and lavish rooms, Mystic's voice weaving through, calm and commanding, a lifeline Michael grips as his thoughts tangle. The scream echoes, a barb in his brain, but she glides ahead, boots tapping the floor, nails flashing like embers as she points to worn tapestries or carved rails. He trails her, swept along, the air thick with her presence, until they reach wide double doors. She pauses, a sly smile curling her lips. "Well, since we're here, I guess it's time to inspect my new toy," she says, her tone playful yet edged, tightening his chest. She thinks, I've been looking forward to seeing what my latest find has to reveal, her anticipation growing.
The doors part, unveiling a circular room awash in warm, trembling light from a chandelier. Couches ring the center, their burgundy velvet complementing the glow. The air buzzes as Mystic strides in, claiming the grandest seat with effortless poise. Michael lingers at the edge, but her gaze, keen and expectant, draws him in. Silent men, servants, slip from places unseen, one placing a silver tray beside her, glasses, sliced fruit, another pouring with a quiver in his hands. She ignores them, eyes on Michael.
"Stand there," she says, pointing to the ring's center, her voice smooth as silk, unyielding. He shuffles forward, pulse hammering, keenly aware of the stares pressing close.
"Strip."
The command hits, blunt and forceful. His breath comes quick and shallow, face rapidly heating. He fumbles the robe's tie, fingers slow, stalling. "Now, Michael," she presses, impatience sharpening her tone. The robe pools at his feet, and he stands bare, skin prickling in the cool air, her stare relentless. His hands twitch to shield himself, shoulders hunching.
"Stop that," she snaps, leaning in. "Stand tall. No hiding, no dawdling. I want you standing tall and proud like when I first saw you." Her nails, hard as iron, tap the armrest. He straightens, arms dropping, but shame sears, uncontainable. The servants hover, a mute chorus stoking his exposure.
She reclines, sipping her drink, eyes roving him with a slow, claiming sweep. She motions for him to turn as her appreciative eye wanders the mountains and valleys of his muscles. "Not bad," she murmurs, a pleased hum rising. "But I want more. Get hard for me."
