Zaf came to them, he grinned like a satisfied cat:

      “What, my Lord, are you getting away with your greyhound daddy?” Zaf, unable to resist, laughed. Kors froze.

      “No,” Nik said.

      “I left to feed Barla,” Zaf continued, “and when I returned, I saw that you were not there, and they told me how dad yelled at you and took you away.”

      Zaf turned to Kors:

      “You did everything right. I never fight for fun, combat is not a game! And you?”

      “Never! And I won’t let him anymore!” Kors replied sharply.

      “If only he still listened to you,” Zaf smiled again, “he doesn’t listen to anyone.”

      And Nik, as if confirming Zaf’s words, showed Kors a tattooed finger with the image of an inverted ace of spades on the “ring”.

      “And what does it mean?” Kors asked with a grin. “That you didn’t have enough money for real jewelry, and that’s why you drew them for yourself?” He looked at Zaf. “Nik is just not used to obeying. I was not with him, and no one raised him. But I’ll catch up. He will stop behaving like a thoughtless boy and become a worthy warrior, become a truly great, powerful Demon, the way he really is! I will grind this rough diamond into brilliant! I will put the best in him!”

      Zaf shook his head, and Nik sat down and was sad and silent.

      “Vi-i-tor,” Zaf suddenly said tenderly, as he did in the Limit and in the Ore Town, slightly stretching the vowel, and after “v” he did not insert this rough sound “kh” into his name, as did Nik. Zafa managed to pronounce the name of Kors softer, almost correctly. And Kors froze.

      “You are beautiful,” said Zaf, and he didn’t need to say that already. Kors understood everything perfectly, he was shaking, unconsciously and even in some kind of panic. Kors mentally darted to Nik: “What should I do?”

      “Whatever you want,” Nik responded immediately, “you are free in your manifestations”.

      And Zaf was already unbuttoning his fly. Well, what else had Kors hoped for and counted on, if he himself allowed him in the Limit to do with him everything that Zaf wanted? And now it was not surprising that Zaf continued to consider him his. Kors wanted to refuse him, but how? After Kors crawled at his feet like an obedient slave, and after everything that took place in between? Of course, Zaf considered Kors his own, he was sure that Kors liked him, and there was mutual sympathy between them. Now he could take the refusal as an insult. And Kors didn’t want to aggravate relations with Zaf at all, so he went up to the unclean one and knelt in front of him, trying not to think about anything.

      “I missed you,” said Zaf, taking out his decorated scion, “my beautiful greyhound, polish my diamond too…”

      And Kors took his cock in his mouth and sucked Zaf, and he didn’t even imagine what it cost him. Zaf contentedly snuffled his disfigured nose and gently stroked Kors along the white strand, as before, being touched by its unusualness among the dark hair. Kors now hated that white strand of his because it attracted unclean ones so much. But when Zaf was already ready to come, he pushed Kors’ face aside and sprinkled cum on the carpet next to him, without staining Kors and not pouring into his mouth.

      “Handsome black,” he said, carelessly patting Kors on the cheek, “why do I like you so much?”

      And Kors thought that, not aggravating their relationship, he did the right thing.

      “I’ll give you expensive jewelry,” Zaf continued, he looked very pleased.

      “Zaf, I’m not a whore to pay me,” Kors replied, perhaps even too arrogantly and pretentiously, but he still hadn’t quite come to his senses, “I am free in my manifestations and do only what I myself want.”

      “I know,” Zaf answered and laughed, and for some reason Kors didn’t like his laugh.

      Chapter 8

      “When would you want to go to the doctor, today or tomorrow?” Kors asked.

      “Tomorrow,” Nik replied immediately.

      Kors thought for a moment.

      “No. You know, I thought we were going to the doctor today. This will be better.”

      Nik froze in some confusion, and Kors added:

      “I have made this decision.”

      “Why are you asking me then?”

      “Silence! I know what is best.”

      And Nik said nothing.

      Kors tormented Nik for a long time. He took him to the bathroom and washed him, because no matter how much he did it, Nik still seemed dirty to him, and, as Kors believed, he smelled like unclean ones. He poured water on him endlessly. He didn’t like the way the scar looked – it seemed that the crack on his Nik’s cheek was clogged with dirt, and Kors kept rubbing and rubbing his face with a washcloth, lathered with soap, until his cheek noticeably reddened. He washed and dried his hair again, and Nick probably hadn’t washed his hair as many times in his entire life as Kors had washed it for him lately. Carefully combing the tangled strands, Kors made Nik a tail “like black ones wear” and pinned the regrown bangs up from his forehead with thin hairpins. He once again refreshed the tonal dye on Nik’s forehead and cheekbones, hiding the tattoos, and, on the contrary, lined his initials, making them stand out more. Kors smeared the healing ointment on Nik’s still slightly swollen lip without the usual rings. Kors squeezed him, fiddled with him, and tried his own clothes on him for a long time. Finally, he put a bunch of his own clothing on Nik: underwear, an expensive cambric shirt, pants, jacket and boots. Kors threw away his rough boots of the unclean ones and gave him a pair of his own. He also ordered him to throw away Prince Arel’s jacket and gave him his own one. It was a bit large for Nik, but Kors tightened the lacing on the shoulders, sleeves and sides, and buttoned the high collar all the way to the top, so that Nik’s tattooed neck was as closed as possible. The fact that the jacket was a bit too long for Nik even seemed beautiful to Kors. He put his expensive fine leather gloves on his hands. Nik was a warrior, and therefore in most cases, even in a peaceful environment, he wore ammunition, often armor, and always weapons. Therefore, over his jacket, Kors put on his chest and back a protection of hard thick leather, decorated with rows of precious metal plates. There was no need for it now, but Kors just knew that then Nik would inevitably keep his back straight and not slouch as usual. He strapped on his engraved steel shoulder pads, forearm shields, and tied it up with his a pile of belts. Everything to the smallest detail – both clothes and ammunition – belonged to Kors, and he didn’t leave Nik any of his personal belongings, except for the mask.