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Ctirad cleared his throat. “Sir.” he dropped to his knees on the soft, plush carpet.

“Ctirad.” There was the gentlest of chiding tones in Timaios’ voice. Ctirad fought the urge to duck his head and apologize. “When we are alone in my bedroom, at the very least, I expect you to call me by my name.”

“S- Timaios?”

It sounded strange in his voice. He could not remember the last time he’d been allowed that privilege. He didn’t know what to think about it. He looked up at Timaios and found his master wearing a crooked and strange smile.

“I do believe I like that far too much. Would you indulge me in repeating it?”

Ctirad cleared his throat. “Timaios?”

“Lovely. Now. I am torn between any number of options, very few of which will lead to that dinner I told you that you were getting. Ah, well, we can’t always get what we want.” He took a step backwards. “Will you drop your Mask willingly?”

“No, sir, no, Timaios.” He braced himself for the anger, for the order.

“Tch. Ah, well. Another time, perhaps. How about your shirt? Will you take that off willingly?”

“Yes, sir.” He pulled his shirt off and rolled his shoulders, fighting the urge to pose.

“We’ll have to do something about that collar. It’s awful, but I’m beginning to realize I can’t expect anything different from Ermenrich. Does it hurt you?”

Ctirad’s hand went half to his collar, fell. “Not anymore.” It was heavy, but it had stopped being unbearable a long time ago.

“Then I can wait until tomorrow and decide what I want to put on you properly. Will you take your pants off willingly?”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated. “May I stand?”

“Yes.” Timaios paused, and then added in a gentle voice, “unless I order you to your knees, which will not be often, you may stand when you need or want to. Unless I have ordered you to stay in one place, you may leave the room for such things as bodily functions or just to get a breath of air – although if we’re in the middle of something, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me where you’re going first.”

Ctirad processed this slowly. He could remember, vaguely and as if from a very long distance, when those things would have seemed more like duh and less like huge allowances. “Thank you.” He cut off the sir before it got out of his mouth, but could not quite bring himself to say Timaios. He hesitated, feeling like that was too informal. “I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad,” Timaios answered softly. He sounded for the first time like a dangerous man. Ctirad hesitated again before standing and looked up at his master’s face.

The expression was – was almost not, as if he had learned how to Mask what he was feeling. Ctirad decided to settle on doing what he had been told – no, asked – and stood, peeling off his jeans. Belatedly, he remembered that he had to take off his boots, and left those carefully by the side of the wall.

He waited, hands behind his back, feet a shoulder-width apart, his eyes on the wall behind his master’s back. This was tricky, as his new owner was considerably taller than he was.

“So,” Timaios murmured, in the same soft, dangerous voice, “how do you look, really?”

Ctirad considered that. ”I…” He focused for a moment and then managed to shift his Mask. He had learned over the years to Mask not just his Change but to put forth an appearance of health and hale-ness. He let that drop now, keeping his Change hidden.

Timaios hissed. His hand ran over Ctirad’s chest gently, and then over his arms. “It must have been hard, keeping muscle tone when he was clearly not giving you enough food,” he murmured. “And it must be painful, these bruises.”

“I heal pretty quickly.” Ctirad answered, or, rather, didn’t answer. “Can I Mask again, sir?”

“You don’t like being seen like this?”

He considered his answer for a minute, then decided that Timaios had earned a bit of honesty. “I don’t like people knowing someone could do this to me.”

He raised his eyebrows in reply. “Considering…?”

“Even considering, yes.” He Masked again, because he hadn’t been told not to, and he was starting to wonder if there was a limit to Timaios’ generosity.

He hadn’t found it yet, at least. “Let me get you some pajama pants. We’ll worry about clothing later. Except – do you have a preference for that?”

“Things I can move in, sir. Things that don’t chafe too much.”

“You’re rather easy to please, aren’t you?”

“I-I don’t know if I’m easy to please, but I’m easy to make comfortable. I-” There was a knock on the bedroom door, and he fell silent.

“Will you be comfortable having Danny bring the food in while you’re nude?” There was a gentle teasing to Timaios’ voice. Ctirad found he liked it.

“I won’t, ah, won’t be uncomfortable, sir.”

“Very good. Come in, Danny.”

As the door opened, Ctirad realized he’d forgotten all about the food.

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Timaios’ house was everything Ctirad might have expected from someone as rich as Tim Kaprinsky, and yet nothing at all he expected. It was a big house on a big lot in the middle of the city, an easy four acres of property with such good landscaping that you hardly noticed you could almost never see more than three feet in any direction, and the house itself was almost completely obscured from the road and all three of its neighbors.

The inside, though – or, at least, from the garage to the stairs upward – looked comfortable. It was more spartan than opulent, as long as you didn’t think too much about what some of the materials cost, and the sitting room he got a glimpse of was done in overstuffed upholstery that actually looked designed to sit in.

“Sal,” Timaios asked of his driver, “can you tell Danny to send up food for two? A real meal, but keep it relatively bland. I’m not sure how much good food our Ctirad here has had in the recent past.”

None was a safe bet, but he hadn’t been asked, so he didn’t answer. Timaios’ hand was on the small of his back, steering him as effectively as if he’d had him on a leash.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sal. This way, Ctirad.” The back stairs – they had to be back stairs, any place this big had to have a grand staircase somewhere – were carpeted in something soft under Ctirad’s boots, and he stumbled for a minute, thinking he ought to have taken his shoes off.

“Easy,” Timaios murmured. On the stairway, he was practically pressed against Ctirad’s side. It was a warm feeling, pleasant, and yet distracting as well. “You’re fine. Just up these stairs and, here, to the left.”

To the left took Ctirad to a smallish door, just barely big enough to allow for the horns he couldn’t currently see on Timaios. He made a questioning noise in his throat, not quite trusting him with words.

“There, yes. It’s okay.”

He hadn’t been this skittish in a long time. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d had a new Owner. He opened the door.

The room inside was – well, it looked lived-in. Someone had tidied, he thought, and made the bed, but there was a stack of books on one nightstand, a tablet and a laptop on the other, and three pairs of shoes under the bed.

Timaios’ bedroom had no mirrors, and the wide wall of windows was covered with blinds and curtains. The decor was expensive understated wood and neutrals in light colors, except something in purple silk thrown across the desk chair.

“Steady, steady. All right, my lovely man, I’ve got you in my bedroom.”

All thoughts of dinner fled at the rumble in Timaios’ voice.

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