Daniel was cautiously making his way to the garden gate which was fortunately left unattended. Profusely sweating with every step, he was desperately trying to look like a person taking a casual stroll in a beautiful garden, imbued with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming roses. There was only one thing on his mind- the chance to finally escape and leave all the utter horrors behind.

Another step on stiff unsteady from fear legs, and one more, and one more, Daniel reached his hand out to the old heavy oak door, grabbed the brass ring to pull... When a warm hand landed on his shoulder, it sent an ice-cold shiver down his spine. He closed his eyes in anguish, allowing himself a second to sorrow for the lost opportunity to regain his freedom. He turned around with a blank expression, looking detachedly at bodyguard Matt who in turn was gazing at him with a scrutinizing look.

 “Where are you going? You know you are not allowed to leave the grounds. Go back into the house, the boss is coming back soon”.

 “I wanted to see people outside,” routinely lied Daniel returning to his miserable cage, “I am tired of painting the same faces.”

“Well, if he allows you to go, I will go with you,” Matt was not pushing, but was walking very closely forcing him to walk faster. “Come on, Daniel, you are all covered in paint, you must clean up. A bit faster, ok?”

Daniel obediently sped up, the legs were reading the brain impulses and were striding forward, at the same time they were receiving other impulses demanding them to run, run now, before it was too late. The steps were tiny, unsure as if the legs wanted to stubbornly grow into the ground first and then run away from the house, following the true desire of their owner. Matt signed tiredly but held back reproach, softly took Daniel's elbow, and led him to the house faster, almost dragging him.

That way he walked with him through the spacious ground floor living room, light and distinctively elegant with large, exquisite flower bouquets in vases, priceless paintings on the walls interspersed with Daniel’s paintings. He walked him up wide marble stairs covered with soft Persian rugs, through the first floor living room, and by the bedroom door Matt softly pushed Daniel towards it and said,” Why don’t you take a shower and go downstairs, ok?”

“Ok,” mechanically replied Daniel opening the door.

He looked around his bedroom with the grim, despairing gaze of a prisoner, the room was tidied up while he was in the garden. He sighed dejectedly and went to the bathroom to wash off all the consequences of his art, so untalented, so empty lately. In the huge mirror above the bathroom countertop, he looked at his worn-out gaunt face with the thin, faint line of a scar on his right cheek, pulled down his lower eyelids grotesquely, wishing that he could stay that ugly forever and never attract Vincent with his burdensome beauty again.

There were smears of oil paint on his face, and now it seemed that under his eyes there were wide drips of black tears - Daniel chuckled unhappily, distracting himself involuntarily from his heavy thoughts. He examined his face with a detached professional look, thinking over the composition of a new painting – a luscious landscape of the Garden of Eden and a sad clown Pierrot with black tears on his cheeks.

He visualized the details, already drawing broad, juicy strokes of the garden with a mastichin, painting Pierrot against the background of the garden's garish riot of colors with a thin brush, deliberately giving Pierrot's thin painting a starring role, killing the cheerfulness of the garden with his sadness. Hands moved swiftly, wiping away the paint with oil, soaping them to wash away the oil, pulling off the work clothes, and tossing them carelessly to the floor. His feet led him confidently to the shower stall so that his hands could begin the usual ritual of turning on the water, taking the loofah, pouring shower gel over it, lathering it vigorously, and beginning to remove the slightest traces of paint from his body to prepare his body for Vincent.

Daniel came out of the bedroom with wet hair, neatly combed but already starting to stick out stubbornly in different directions. He cast a glance at Matt standing in a relaxed pose, asking wordlessly if Vincent had arrived, Matt understood and nodded, ”He is already downstairs, waiting for you. Let’s go.”

Vincent stood in the living room in front of Daniel’s ugly creation of that afternoon, peering at it with his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line, seeming to read something important in the absurd landscape that was hidden from him. Turned swiftly at the near-silent sound of Daniel's footsteps and smiled softly, smoothing the displeasure on his face, hiding in his relaxed pose the fact that he saw Daniel’s inner revolt in the painting, pretending everything was fine. Crazy, dangerous, scary - Daniel swallowed nervously, approaching him obediently.

“You've been in a Munch mood lately, Danny," Vincent said slowly, looking at his calm, detached face, on which Daniel desperately hoped it was impossible to read his true thoughts. “You can't go back to your usual style just yet, can you?”

“I cannot,” Daniel answered briefly and covered his eyes in alienation when Vincent leaned in to kiss him. Vincent kissed briefly, stroked his scar fleetingly with his thumb, and sighed.

“We have to get to Dr. Myers, Danny, go to the car, I'll join you in a minute," Vincent gently pushed him toward the exit and turned to Matt, who was standing at attention, looking at his superior with the eyes of an old servant. Daniel strode toward the exit, hearing a soft conversation behind him: Vincent was questioning Matt in detail about what Daniel was doing while he was away, meticulously, not leaving a single drop of privacy, as if he wouldn't watch the camera footage of tiny Daniel moving sadly in his golden cage, a bird with clipped wings that would never fly again.

In the car, Daniel habitually turned on an old Charlie Chaplin movie on the seat's built-in display and was engrossed in the picture, completely disconnected from what was happening, so he didn't even notice Vincent who sat beside him, only flinched when Vincent took his hand. Vincent looked at him with a soft yet unreadable gaze, ran his thumb over Daniel’s knuckles, drew his hand to the lips, kissing each delicate finger in turn, and regretfully, without waiting for a response, lowered their hands to the seat and ordered the driver softly, “Let’s go.”

 Daniel tentatively pulled his hand from Vincent's, but Vincent didn't let go, staring at him, stroking his fingers, rubbing the plastic surgery scars with effort, as if he wanted to erase them forever, just as he wanted to erase the horror that had happened to them. Daniel's lips twitched nervously, and he pulled his hand harder. Annoyed that he wasn't allowed to do even this small thing, Vincent finally let go, rubbing the crooked little finger that had been put back together by the brilliant surgeons.

“Did you exercise it today, baby?” Vincent released his hand and ran his fingers gently over Daniel’s cheek. It took Daniel an incredible effort to stay where he was, not recoil in disgust, knowing full well that Vincent would lose his temper for his willfulness.

“Yes,” Daniel said reluctantly, obeying the strong fingers that turned his face by the chin toward Vincent, scenting him as always with fresh mint and ginger, the aroma of coffee he'd recently drunk, a Cuban cigar he'd smoked. Vincent approached slowly, kissed Daniel’s compressed lips, and smiled affectionately, “You are lying, Danny, I always know when you lie. You're so busy with your painting, that you forgot about your pinky. Don't forget, please, Dr. Sanders said that without exercising, the pinky will never regain sensitivity.”

“All right, Vincent, I'll exercise it every day,” Daniel replied obediently, looking warily into greenish-brown eyes that had once seemed like magical Irish moss, but now resembled a stinking methane swamp - if you put a match to it, it would explode, blow you into pieces, bury you underneath, soak you in the stinking sludge so that you would disintegrate into methane and wait as a greedy swamp for the next lost traveler. Apparently, something unpleasant, and repulsive reflected on Daniel’s face, and Vincent grimaced and moved away, leaving him alone. Daniel breathed out a sigh of relief and stared back at the screen, watching Charlie Chaplin dance with his signature comedic flair.

“I'll change Dr. Myers next month,” Vincent uttered with a grim expression, cracking his knuckles nervously. “It's been five months, Danny, and you haven't made any progress. You clearly need another doctor.”

Daniel pressed his lips together angrily - no doctor was going to help change his perception of Vincent, not one! Not after what had happened. There was no way to make a victim of violence love his aggressor again, no doctor could do that. And what good would that do? Vincent softened towards him only because he was suffering from amnesia, which made him forget Daniel's misdeed, and once he remembered everything in detail, he would cut Daniel slowly this time, pulling out his veins, enjoying the agony with the pleasure of a maniac. Daniel was breathing heavily as he tried to cope with agitation, and he prayed that Dr. Sanders, who was treating Vincent, would not make any more progress until Daniel could finally escape and hide from retribution.

“Suit yourself,” Daniel turned away to the window, hiding his face from the unrelenting scrutiny, clamping his eyes shut hard to keep from crying out in fear.

“Hey, baby, hey,” Vincent moved over and hugged him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. Daniel used to love it when Vincent did that. When Vincent pressed against his cheek, Daniel would turn for a kiss, but not now. Now Daniel squirmed tensely. “What are you so nervous about? If you don't want to change Dr. Myers, just say it and you'll stay in therapy with him. I always give you what you want, Danny.”

“I want to stay with him, yes,” Daniel breathed out convulsively, camouflaging his real wish behind his answer. The wish that Vincent would finally let him go and let him live in peace. And yet he couldn't suppress it, and for the millionth time, Daniel's desperate words burst out, unheeding him: “And it's better... it's better if you let me go, Vincent! I...”

“No,” Vincent spat out harshly, scooping him up and pulling Daniel’s tense and gnarled body onto his lap. “You love me, I love you. It's forever, Danny. I'm never letting you go, do you hear me? You hear me?” Vincent shook Daniel and started planting random kisses on his face, pulling Daniel tight against him, crushing mental resistance with caresses. He let go, breathing hard when Daniel pushed nervously to get away. Vincent finished firmly, "I don't want to hear that again! Stop torturing me.”

“OK,” Daniel, disheveled and flushed, moved clumsily from his lap to the window and stared blankly at the screen again, feeling extreme, inescapable fatigue. This agony of nervous waiting would never end, or it would end in horrible torture when Vincent remembered everything. Maybe it was even for the best, at least it would free him for eternal oblivion. Anything was better than just waiting, writhing in terror.

Dr. Myers greeted Daniel, as usual, with a wide, professional smile that had as much warmth in it as in Alaska. Daniel smiled back with a practiced smile, hiding his irritation - he hadn't gotten used to Myers in the past months. That well-groomed, confident beta, impeccable from the tips of his manicured fingernails to the neatly combed hair, the opposite of Daniel's perpetually shaggy hair, which defied brushes and styling products; wildly irritating, repulsive in his role as Vincent's lobbyist.

During the first month of therapy, Myers brazenly tried to convince Daniel that his perception of reality was distorted because of the severe post-traumatic stress and that Vincent was not a psychopathic aggressor at all. When he realized that his gaslighting method caused only rejection, he turned his therapy approach one hundred and eighty degrees, without any embarrassment. He began to gently rub in the need to forgive, to accept, to let go of resentment and heartache, trying to nurture in Daniel sympathy for Vincent. Vincent himself was treated by his colleague, Dr. Sanchez, who trying to cure the selective amnesia that had thrown away a brief period from his memory after the car accident.

Vincent had changed overnight from loving, beloved, dependable, warm, and needed, to a cold-blooded torturer and rapist, who had enjoyed Daniel's every moan and sob for agonizingly long hours, did not want to forgive or accept, much less let go of his resentment. Daniel's transgression was disproportionate to the punishment that killed all his senses except his bloodlust and his acute desire to run away and never see Vincent again, never breathe his pheromone. The pheromone that against Daniel’s will made him want to lean to Vincent’s strong chest. To kill off what remained of his desire for Vincent, the desire that was now ruled only by instinct.

“You briefly mentioned Adrian last time," Dr. Myers said in an even voice, devoid of modulation. “It sounded like Adrian is a friend of yours, right?”

“That’s right,” Daniel said after a pause, desperately recalling the time he had revealed information about Adrian, the only person on Earth who could help him right now. Then he corrected himself in an attempt to protect Adrian’s cover, “But not a close one; we'd only met a year ago.”

... Adrian visited his gallery on a delightful summer evening, brimming with joy, as Daniel watched in admiration the play of tiny halftones in the dusk sky, elegantly blending the cool hues of purple, violet, pink, scarlet, magenta, and indigo on the horizon, soaking in the swiftly lingering warm tones of the day, transforming them into neutral turquoise, emerald, red halftones, cool turquoise, emerald, and red halftones, expelling the warmth and ushering in the chill.

Daniel observed intently, soaking in the natural spectacle in his mind, lamenting his inability to fully capture the exquisite beauty he witnessed, already moving his hands on the invisible canvas, and rubbing the primary colors with his fingers first, as he usually did before starting a new painting. Daniel did not know how long he stood like that, and how long Adrian stood behind him, politely waiting for the artist to turn to him. He turned when the sunset began to fade, not wanting to memorize the boring. Daniel remained unstartled despite the sudden arrival of the stranger interrupting his contemplation, he raised an eyebrow, examining the blond-haired, blue-eyed like himself alpha, who smiled calmly in response, allowing himself to be examined.

“Good evening, how can I help you?” Daniel absent-mindedly noted that the stranger's face would have pleased Michelangelo, who admired the flawless features that universally enabled him to depict both an angel and a devil in his artwork. This alpha could well have served Michelangelo as a model for the Sistine Chapel: well-built, tall, with sculpted muscles and a handsome face. Too handsome to be interesting to Daniel, who preferred slight flaws in his models.

“Good evening Mr. Bell, my name is Adrian Bruno, and I would like to purchase one of your paintings.” Mr. Bruno was absorbing the sunset’s beauty with the same admiration as Daniel, he was also absorbing Daniel's beauty. He scrutinized Daniel with an intensity more characteristic of an artist than a buyer. Daniel, used to reactions to his appearance, indifferently allowed to be scrutinized, calmly responding and chortled softly at his guess - the owner of Roman features was Italian. Daniel calmly answered, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bruno. Which one do you have in mind?”

Adrian had indeed studied painting before but had given it up when he realized that his talent was too modest to stand out among the classical masters and contemporary stars. He chose to channel his aspirations into the realms of art history and dealing in paintings for affluent and influential clientele. He purchased just one painting from Daniel at that time, yet he savored each artwork with the pleasure of a connoisseur. He diligently recorded his observations in his diary, a practice less common in the age of digital gadgets.

“Thank you, Mr. Bell, I'll see you soon,” Adrian courteously tipped an imaginary hat, gracefully bowing out, only to return a week later to purchase three additional paintings for his clients.

“Are they always with you, Daniel?” he asked a month later.  Daniel looked back at Matt and Steve feeling embarrassed.

“Yes. My fiancé is a significant figure in business, so certain security precautions must be taken. I'm used to it, Adrian, sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. What did you think of my sfumato?”

It was easy and interesting with Adrian because he knew more about art, its history, different techniques and styles than Daniel did. Daniel dug in his heels when Vincent got jealous and asked him not to meet Adrian. They had a huge fight then, yelling at each other like crazy, and then made up just as passionately on the massive tabletop. Daniel slid on his bare stomach over the smooth surface, digging his fingers into the edges of the table to hold himself in place, feeling Vincent's hard cock slamming into him, literally crushing him in unbridled pleasure, and screamed all over the house, because the sex after a fight was fucking good.

Even though Daniel agreed that Vincent checked Adrian, he still had to fight to be able to see his newly acquired friend. Vincent came to the gallery for an appointment and met with him, at the same time instructing his head of security to run a check on Adrian Bruno. He calmed down a little after the check was clean, but every time Daniel mentioned Adrian’s name, Vincent crinkled his nose, still being jealous.

Adrian turned out to be a Chinese puzzle box with a hidden secret that Vincent's head of security couldn't crack, well, Uncle Sam could create some tricky secrets. After a few months of becoming warmly acquainted, shortly before the dreadful event, Adrian told Daniel everything about Vincent's criminal activities, about his boundless danger, defining the formidable predator with unadorned precision and stark clarity. Daniel gasped in horror, covering his mouth with his palm to keep from screaming, and stared at Adrian, eyes widened and darkened by a primal fear.

“Relax your shoulders, Daniel, your watchdogs are taking notice, they learned to read body language just like we did. That's it, good boy. I'm with the FBI, we're about to go after Vincent Laurent, so I don't want you to go down as an accomplice. If you help us get the documents we need to put Vincent away for a long time, the FBI will put you in the witness protection program and keep you safe.”

Daniel outright refused, loving Vincent too much to set him up like this. Yet for a week he could neither create nor function normally, just thinking hard about what he was told. Vincent had killed, even if not with his own hands, but he had killed - Daniel shuddered as he stared at the strong hands with long aristocratic fingers, at the snap of which people lost their lives. It was impossible to go on living with Vincent, impossible, but it was impossible to betray him.

And Daniel decided to run, knowing full well that Vincent wouldn't let him just walk away - he'd said many times that even if Daniel fell out of love with him, he'd stay with him. Daniel managed to escape from Matt and Steve to organize a locker where he stashed money, which he had handled quite carelessly, and his passport. Upon his return, he opened his innocent eyes and said that he needed to be alone, chasing after the muse that had eluded him.