Oliver led me to a door with a keypad lock. Casually, he punched in the code, not bothering to check if I was watching. The door clicked open, revealing something that felt like it belonged to another world—a lavish apartment, entirely out of place compared to the stark, cold halls of the Vault or even the Isles. The entryway flowed into an inviting living space, centered around a fireplace. It wasn't real, of course—one of those fake setups meant to make the room feel cozier, but it did the job.
To the left, there was a kitchen that seemed almost too perfect: stark white quartz countertops on beautiful wooden cabinets, everything shining like it had just been installed. The dining area caught my eye next, a wall lined with bottles of wine, each perfectly positioned. Directly ahead, a hallway stretched out, leading deeper into the apartment.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Oliver said, his tone light.
I couldn't help but snap back jokingly, "I wouldn't exactly call this humble."
He laughed, a real, genuine sound. "You've always got something to say, don't you?"
He led me down the hallway and opened a door to reveal his bedroom. It was a cozy yet lavish space—plush carpets, soft lighting, and a bed that looked impossibly comfortable. But there was something about it that felt too perfect, like it had been set up for display rather than to be lived in.
Next, he showed me the bathroom, which took luxury to another level. The shower was enormous, with multiple shower heads and a glass door that looked like it belonged to a five-star hotel. Everything gleamed, from the tiles to the chrome fixtures.
"Take a shower," he said, his voice softening a little. "Wash off the day. That robe," he pointed to a plush white robe hanging on the wall, "it's all yours."
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something deeper behind his usual confidence. "Take your time," he added. "I'll be cooking you something to eat in the meantime."
He left me standing there, and as I looked around the bathroom, I felt a strange sense of relief, like I could finally wash away not just the grime from the Isles, but the weight of everything that had just happened.
As I stepped into the bathroom, I couldn't help but laugh softly to myself. The thought hit me that in the past two days, I'd had more showers than I had in two weeks on the streets. It was almost absurd—cleaner now in this place that was significantly dirtier than anything I'd ever known.
As I stood under the cascade of warm water, I tried to focus on the soothing sensations, but every movement reminded me of the pain from earlier. The soreness was a constant reminder of what I had endured, and I couldn't push the memory away completely. I had never experienced such sexual pain before, not even on the streets.
The empathy I felt for the Class C debtors grew stronger. The thought of their lack of choice, their complete surrender to whatever came their way, struck a chord deep within me. A realization of their plight, and my initial curiosity about Class C now felt heavy with sadness.
Oliver's control, his power over this world, was something I found myself envying. He wielded it with a dark charisma that I was strangely drawn to. I admired his ability to command the room, to bend situations to his will. It was the kind of control I had always craved, but I hadn't fully grasped the cost that came with it.
He had to set aside his morals, to compartmentalize his actions and decisions in the name of business. Yet, despite all that, I couldn't quite bring myself to see him as a villain. The way he moved through this world, with all its darkness and complexity, was almost mesmerizing. I was torn between the allure of his power and the unsettling realization of what it took to maintain it.
I found my mind wandering back to the craving for another escape. The thought of being trapped in my own thoughts was almost unbearable.
I recalled the pills I had slipped into my pocket, the ones I bought from Fred. I had moved them from my old jeans pocket into the new ones. With my body still tingling from the shower's warmth, I quietly stepped out and started rummaging through my pockets.
I found the small baggy and opened it carefully. My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled out two Percocet. I took them back to the shower, using the still-warm water to swallow them down. The anticipation of relief began to ease my mind, making the impending calmness feel like a distant yet comforting promise.
In the privacy of the opulent bathroom, I took my time under the cascading water, savoring the solitude and the warmth. I could feel the soothing effect of the Percocet beginning to take hold, dulling the edges of my thoughts and bringing a sense of calm. My movements became more languid, my mind drifting.
The world outside felt distant, and I relished the sense of peace that slowly settled over me.
I stepped out of the shower, the soft towel waiting for me. It felt like velvet against my skin as I dried off, its plushness welcome. I glanced around and noticed a brush on the counter by the sink. I picked it up and saw Oliver's hairs tangled in the bristles.
I brought the brush close, inhaling deeply. The scent of him, subtle yet distinct, lingered on the bristles. I closed my eyes, running my fingers over the coarse hair, feeling the faint remnants of him. The high from the Percocet had eased me into a haze of calm and comfort, dulling the soreness and allowing me to focus on this small but intimate connection.
The drawer beside the sink caught my eye. I quietly opened it, revealing a selection of body care products. Among them, a bottle of cologne stood out. I uncapped it and took a cautious sniff. The fragrance was intoxicating—rich, warm, and undeniably masculine. I closed the bottle, returning it to its place.
I made my way out of the bathroom. The robe felt luxurious against my skin, and I took a moment to appreciate the softness and warmth it provided. The peaceful tranquility of the high lingered, making the world outside the bathroom feel distant and unreal.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, the sound of Oliver's voice reached me. I paused, holding my breath, trying to catch fragments of the conversation. From the hallway, I could make out a familiar voice. Aspen. My steps were tentative as I moved toward the kitchen.
The conversation abruptly stopped as I approached. Aspen's eyes darted toward me, her gaze sharp and condescending. "I didn't know you had company," she said, her tone dripping with disdain.
Oliver's voice was calm but firm. "Lux will be doing some work for me now, and she's proving to be quite loyal." His words were reassuring, but the tension in the room was intense.
Aspen's gaze shifted between Oliver and me before she responded. "We'll continue this conversation another time," she said, her eyes lingering on me with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. She leaned in to kiss Oliver on the cheek, her eyes never leaving mine. Oliver accepted the kiss, his hand gently resting on her waist. "Tomorrow," he said softly, and added, "I have a nice dinner to prepare—Maultaschen."
Aspen gave me one last, lingering look before she turned and left.
Oliver turned to me, his demeanor shifting to one of warmth and familiarity. He poured two glasses of wine, handing one to me. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the plush couch in the living room. "Make yourself at home."
I settled into the couch, the softness welcoming me, and took a sip of the wine, its rich flavor lingered on my tongue. Oliver moved to the kitchen, and I could hear the clinking of utensils as he continued preparing the meal.
As Oliver moved around the kitchen, I took another sip of wine. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, "What's Maultaschen?"
He glanced over, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Maultaschen is a traditional German dish," he explained. "It's kind of like a stuffed pasta—think of it as a cross between ravioli and dumplings. It's filled with a mix of meat, spinach, and spices. My mother used to make it for us. She was German, and my father was Danish."
There was a faint shift in his voice, the usual smooth confidence faltering just for a moment. He moved back to the counter, continuing to prepare the meal, but something in his posture tightened slightly. When he spoke again, his words were softer, more deliberate. "She loved to cook, and Maultaschen was one of her specialties."
His eyes grew distant, as if he were momentarily lost in memory, but just as quickly as that vulnerability surfaced, he smoothed it over. The tenderness in his voice felt genuine, but I caught the subtle way he turned back to the task at hand, as if he didn't want to dwell too long on whatever emotions the memory stirred.
I listened intently, absorbing every word. The warmth from the wine and the calming effect of the Percocet made me feel unusually relaxed and content, but a small part of me remained alert, questioning. Oliver's reminiscence added an unexpected layer of intimacy to the evening, yet something about it felt carefully measured, like he was allowing only a glimpse behind the mask. I couldn't help but wonder how much of this was calculated, how much he was showing me what he wanted me to see.
I looked up at Oliver, a bit puzzled. "How do you find time to cook and everything with how busy you are running the Vault and your businesses?"
He glanced at me, the flirtatious glint in his eyes returning as quickly as it had faded. "Sometimes, a mishap like today is a sign that I need to take a breather," he said, but there was a subtle edge to his tone, something beneath the surface. His gaze lingered on me a fraction longer than usual. "Good company and a good meal are the perfect remedy."
He moved closer, the playful warmth in his voice returning, but I noticed how his earlier moment of vulnerability had disappeared, replaced by his usual confidence. "I've got Aspen on the job, finding some more guys to help with the Vault. Marge was right—it's foolish not to hire more staff when we've got the extra revenue from the theater. It'll help keep things running smoothly and give me more time to enjoy moments like this."
I felt a flicker of curiosity. Something about how quickly he shifted from speaking about his mother to discussing business made me wonder if he was deflecting. I decided to push a little. "What purpose will I serve in the Vault? It seems like Aspen, Marge, and your guys have everything handled."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head with a hint of amusement. "You always get straight to the point, don't you?" he said with a playful smile. "Well, you'll have your role. You're not just here to be a part of the team—you're here to bring something unique to the table."
Oliver leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, and for a moment, his gaze drifted away, as if he were searching for the right words. His usual controlled demeanor was still there, but it was as if he was carefully selecting what to reveal next. "There's something about you I can't quite pinpoint," he admitted, his voice softer now, less certain than before. "It's more than just the business side of things. There's something different, something refreshing about having you around."
He looked at me with a mix of intrigue and warmth. "Everyone in the Vault is so familiar with me. They practically bow to me, and you… you don't. You question me, even when your instincts tell you not to. It's a challenge I haven't had in a while, and I find that both intriguing and refreshing."
I watched him closely, taking in his words.
I set my glass of wine down on the table beside the couch, sinking into the plush softness. The warmth and comfort were too inviting, and I drifted off without realizing it.
When I woke, Oliver was crouched in front of me, his hand gently rubbing my arm. "Dinner's ready," he said with a soft chuckle, "I kept talking, not realizing you'd fallen asleep."
A rush of frustration hit me as I realized I had missed part of our conversation. I had been so eager to learn more about him, and now I felt like I'd missed an important piece. I quickly pushed the irritation aside, focusing instead on the delicious aroma wafting from the dining area.
The table was perfectly set, and the food looked and smelled incredible. The sight of the beautifully plated food made my stomach growl with anticipation.
He pulled out the chair for me with a gentle smile, and as I settled into it, he poured a glass of ice water for me. "Maybe it's time you start drinking a bit more water," he said, his tone light and teasing.
We shared a laugh, both aware of the coping mechanisms required to manage the chaos of life in the Vault. Between the drugs, the demands of the Vault, and the constant grind, it felt like a bit of madness was a prerequisite for sanity.
As we enjoyed the meal, I found myself unexpectedly opening up. "You know," I began, pausing as I took a bite of the delicious Maultaschen, "I feel strange since of belonging here. And that's odd because I've never really thought of anything in my life as 'home.' I've just survived."
Oliver's gaze was attentive, and I saw a piece of understanding in his eyes. I continued, feeling more vulnerable than I had intended. "It's like… being here is different from anything I've known."
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Sometimes, we find home in the most unexpected places," he said softly. "Even when we don't realize it, there's a part of us that's drawn to where we're meant to be."
As we finished the meal, the conversation dwindled to a comfortable silence. The kind of silence that was more about shared understanding than awkwardness.
Sitting in Oliver's lavish apartment, with one bed and a sense of intimacy hanging in the air, I couldn't help but feel aroused by the idea of it all. It was as if everything about this place and the situation was an invitation, a tantalizing hint of what might be.
Oliver was right there, so close, yet still somehow just out of reach. The proximity, the way he looked at me, it all seemed like it was teasing at something more. I felt an ache, a desire, a need to bridge that gap between us.
Oliver and I finished our meal and he took my hand and led me to his bedroom. He pulled back the covers and handed me the remote for the TV. "Make yourself comfortable and relax," he said, his tone gentle but firm.
I crawled into his bed, noting how the scent of him lingered in the sheets. It felt oddly intimate, like I was enveloped in a part of him. As I settled in, he walked out of the room, only to return with my glass of water. "Get some rest," he said, his eyes meeting mine with a serious look. "I need you fresh and sharp for tomorrow."
With that, he left me alone in the room. I laid there, feeling a mix of frustration and longing. The space, so comfortable and inviting, only heightened my desire. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anything, and yet I couldn't shake the feeling of being led on. I recalled Aspen's words, her cold skepticism about Oliver and the nature of our interactions.
Was Oliver's intimacy genuine, or just another tactic to ensure my compliance, much like how Aspen was kept in line? The thought gnawed at me, leaving me restless and unsure about the true nature of our connection.
I turned on the TV, a luxury I hadn't indulged in much before. Life on the streets had been a blur of constant motion and makeshift shelters with no power. Now, as I lay in Oliver's bed, the soft glow of the television felt oddly comforting, yet frustrating. I flipped through channels aimlessly, trying to distract myself from the swirl of thoughts in my mind.
The clinking of dishes and the sound of running water from the kitchen drifted through the room, a steady reminder of Oliver's presence. I imagined him there, sleeves rolled up, his strong hands and forearms visible as he moved with purpose. His hair, perfectly tousled, added to the image of him that lingered in my mind. The thought of him in that domestic setting was a strange but potent allure.
Despite my frustration, a part of me admired how he kept me at a distance. He was a master at teasing, never giving in easily. I realized that I couldn't smooth-talk or bribe my way into his intimacy. I had to earn it, and his control was clear, a constant reminder of who held the reins. And, as much as it drove me wild, I couldn't deny how much I craved that control. It was a game of patience and discipline, one that I was willing to play because I found myself utterly captivated by him.
I switched off the TV, letting the room settle into darkness. My thoughts became my primary source of entertainment as The dim glow from the fireplace cast a warm light across the room, and I could see the hallway from where I lay.
The sounds in the kitchen ceased, and I watched as the lights were turned off, leaving only the fireplace's flicker. I tensed slightly as I saw Oliver approaching the bathroom. He moved with confidence, and I could see him unbuttoning his shirt, letting it slip off his shoulders. The sight of his toned chest, lit by the subtle firelight, made my heart race and my body ache with intense heat.
He stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. The shower started running, and I could hear him singing softly in a language I didn't recognize. His low, baritone voice carried a kind of raw masculinity that made it hard to stay still. The sound of water and his voice created an inviting atmosphere, like an unspoken invitation.
I considered slipping out of bed to peek into the bathroom but hesitated. The balance between my curiosity and the fear of jeopardizing the trust we'd begun to build was a delicate one. His actions were a teasing allure, a clear signal of something more, but I wanted to respect the boundaries and not risk pushing too hard. The tension between restraint and desire left me restless, caught in the throes of my own conflicted emotions.
I laid back against the pillows, my mind swirling with the realization that this was exactly where Oliver wanted me. The tantalizing mix of restraint and desire felt like part of his plan, a lesson in self-control. He had expertly positioned me at the edge of temptation, forcing me to confront my own limits.
In that moment, I understood that my struggle was more than just physical desire; it was about maintaining control in a situation where Oliver had expertly manipulated the boundaries. My thoughts became increasingly tangled with the warmth and tension of the moment. As the sounds of the shower continued, I could no longer deny the growing heat within me. The psychological game Oliver had played had only heightened my desire, pushing me past the point of mere curiosity and restraint.
With my body craving relief, I gently eased my hand down, seeking the comfort I so desperately needed. My muscles protested, sore from my earlier encounter with the door guard, but I didn't care. The ache only fueled my determination. I moved with careful precision, hoping to find release before Oliver finished his shower. My breaths grew deeper, matching the rhythm of my movements as I tried to stay quiet and focused, the lingering soreness mixing with the pleasure, heightening every sensation.
The heat of the moment, combined with the intimate sounds from the bathroom, made each touch more intense. Pleasuring myself wasn't something I was used to doing; it had always felt foreign, unnecessary. But this—this yearning for Oliver—was different. Even this part of me felt new, awakened by the overwhelming pull he had over me. My mind raced with images of him, his touch, his voice. The ache for him was so strong it eclipsed everything else.
I concentrated on finding my release, hoping to finish before he returned and break the spell he had woven so skillfully around me. As I touched myself, the anticipation built rapidly, a powerful wave cresting and crashing within me. The warmth inside me surged, and I could feel the intensity of my own need reaching a peak that was almost unbearable, a raw reminder of the hold he had over me.
My breaths came in short, quick gasps, and a deep, overwhelming sensation of release began to wash over me. The pleasure was sharp and all-encompassing, sending waves of heat through every nerve.
As the climax hit, my entire body tensed, the intensity unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was painful, a raw and unfamiliar sensation that my body wasn't yet accustomed to. The sharpness of it blended with the pleasure, leaving me caught between a gasp and a cry, as if I'd discovered something entirely new about myself.
The release was both immediate and profound, leaving me breathless and trembling, clinging to the fleeting moments of relief before the heat slowly subsided. My muscles ached faintly, a reminder of the intensity and how unprepared I was for this newfound sensation. It was exhilarating, overwhelming, and just a little unnerving, as if I had opened a door I wasn't sure I could close again.
As I came down from my climax, a wave of unexpected embarrassment washed over me. I hadn't realized that I'd become so lost in the moment. The dim light of the fireplace cast Oliver's silhouette against the doorway, his presence both intimidating and compelling. He stood there, casually leaning against the wall, towel in hand, drying his hair with a casual ease that seemed almost deliberate.
The warmth of the moment was abruptly replaced with a cold rush of self-consciousness as he wrapped the towel around his body, obscuring what I had just been craving to see. His voice, smooth and teasing, cut through the silence: "I'm glad you enjoyed your evening."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with a lingering sense of frustration. I couldn't help but think how easily he could have taken what he wanted from me, how he knew precisely how much I desired him, and yet chose to remain just out of reach.
The thoughts churned in my mind, blending with the effects of the Percocet, the wine, and the satisfying release. The combined haze of indulgence and frustration cascaded over me, and I couldn't pinpoint when I drifted off. The mix of sensations soon lulled me into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, leaving me in the embrace of a profound, almost dreamless slumber.
I woke up feeling disoriented, not quite sure how long I'd been asleep. I slid out of bed and padded through the apartment, noting the emptiness. Oliver was nowhere in sight. I saw a throw blanket and pillow on the couch, evidence of where he had slept. The apartment was as pristine as ever, the silence punctuated only by the hum of the refrigerator.
My stomach rumbled, reminding me how hungry I was. I made my way to the kitchen and noticed a clock on the wall—it was already 11 a.m. I slept for well over twelve hours. My eyes were drawn to a plate covered with a glass lid on the counter. I lifted the lid to reveal a prepared breakfast: a bagel, crispy bacon, and fresh fruit. Nestled underneath the plate was a note from Oliver.
I unfolded the note and it read:
Good Morning,
I hope you slept well. You've got a big day ahead of you, so be sure to enjoy a good breakfast. There's a fresh outfit laid out for you on the bathroom sink, along with anything else you might need.
Meet me at my office at 2 p.m.
Looking forward to seeing you,
Oliver
I smiled at the thoughtful gesture, feeling a mix of anticipation and curiosity about what the day would bring. I sat down at the table, savoring the delicious breakfast and the small but significant gesture of Oliver's care.