Chapter Twenty-Four

The night was hot, but the deck of that old workboat was hotter. Sweat and the smell of the bay mingled in the air. That bed of pillows, satin and silk, glided across bare skin. It was the perfect night for this, clear and warm, with the moon reflecting in her eyes. The boat rocked with them. Lapping waves and humming crickets. It was almost too much, but not nearly enough. She pushed him to sit back on his elbows, rode him hard and wild with the moon peeking over her shoulder. She was relentless in her lovemaking, in her desire to take him deeper, take him harder, drive him mad and leave him desperate for more.

He filled her. She filled him. Her desire was his desire. They were trapped in a storm, in the tumult of their passion and if they were thrown overboard, so be it. Let them capsize. It wouldn't stop the rocking of her body.

Seto took her face, kissed her. Teeth and tongues and lips, wanting to taste, wanting to claim.

There was a rustling, as if the sails had been cast above them and Seto opened his eyes to see great black mottled wings spread out behind her. She clung to him and they took flight. They rocked together on a cushion of air, surrounded by stars.

Her voice was desperate, weak. "Do you love me?"

"I do."

"Say it. Oh, God, say it."

"I love you."

She smiled. She cried. There was a terrible tortured scream.

Seto looked on in horror. She was breaking in his hands. The tighter he held, the more she fell apart around him. Her wings crumbled to dust. They were falling, pieces of her trailed behind. Ash in the wind.

"No." Seto took her face. "No, no, no."

They crashed into the water.

She dissolved around him. He was left holding handfuls of greying blue-white hair.

Seto curled into himself. "Why? Why?!"

"Because this is what you're good for."

Fear, sharp and searing. Pain.

Dark hands groped and grabbed. Forced him down, pushed his face into hard nothingness. He struggled, pushed. Hands grabbed his arms, forced them behind his back. His shoulders screamed.

"Quiet, boy. Or do you want your precious little brother to see you like this?"

He was fourteen again. He told himself he wouldn't cry. Bit his tongue till he tasted blood and refused to shed a single tear. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

The gleaming black leather of Gozaburo Kaiba's shoes stepped into his vision. Seto forced his eyes up. He hated that disgusting red suit, hated that cigar clenched between yellowing teeth and the superiority in those beady eyes. If the devil had a face, he was sure that face belonged to Gozaburo Kaiba.

"That's it, boy. You'll come to learn that everyone on this planet lives to serve someone else. The valet that parks your cars. The chef that cooks your meals. They all thrive because we let them. You'll learn to do the same after you've paid your dues."

Seto growled behind clenched teeth. "I owe you nothing."

Gozaburo crouched down. "You owe me everything. If it wasn't for me, you and your brother would still be in that decrypted old orphanage. Your family didn't want you. I didn't want you. You were begging to be broken, to be trained." Gozaburo grabbed a handful of Seto's hair, pulled until the boy cried out in pain. "I was going to take that fire and snuff it out. Train you to be the good son who would take my place and continue my work."

"I'm not you!"

Gozaburo laughed. "Aren't you? It's only a matter of time, boy, then you'll train him as I trained you."

There was a shadow at Gozaburo's shoulder, a small figure in baggy jeans and a t-shirt. He looked without seeing, grey eyes wide and emotionless. No more than nine years old.

"Mokuba…"

Gozaburo got to his feet, placed a rotting hand on Mokuba's shoulder, "Do you see what a bad boy your big brother has been? If you be a good boy, then perhaps you won't have to be punished like that."

"Stop it!"

Seto was on his feet. The heavy weight of a pistol in his hands. It was shaking. The sight jerked from side to side. He grit his teeth, pushed forward, and the muzzle pressed against Gozaburo's temple.

The room was draped in reds and golds. There was a fire in the hearth. Gozaburo was in his night coat, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"You promised," Seto said. "I do what you say, he stays safe. I kept my end of the deal, now you keep yours."

"Oh, you'll keep him safe. I assure you that. You'll protect him until it comes time to use him, then you'll be no better than me. You'll see. Someday you won't have a choice. You'll make use of him, just as I did you. You'll turn him into your obedient little pet."

Gozaburo reached up and that rotting hand left slick grease and curdling blood on Seto's face. Seto flinched back, hit a wall. Hands groped his skin, brittle as glass. His ear, his shoulder. Parts of him were breaking off, shattering under seeking hands.

Gozaburo's voice came again, distorted, as if he and that man had melded into one. "You're a good little boy, aren't you?"

Seto screamed. Tears poured from his eyes. He pressed the gun hard against Gozaburo's head.

"Shut up!"

Bang.

"Shut up!"

Bang.

"Shut up! I'm not you! I'm not!"

Gozaburo's voice was over his shoulder. "What a shame."

It wasn't Gozaburo who lay at Seto's feet. Blood and skull and brain matter caked a white German Olympics baseball cap.

Gozaburo clicked his tongue. "He was going to be no use anyway. You let him go too long without properly training him. That's what you get for being soft-hearted, boy."

The gun fell from Seto's fingers. Nails dug into his scalp. Blood trailed down his thighs. He was breaking apart. Screaming.

Screaming...