His Only Captive - (Far Cry Fan Fiction)

Chapter Six - Splatters of Blood

The dark figure stood motionless in the doorway. The air was silent; the sound of blood dripping onto the floorboards echoed in the dim room. Katerina, shuddered, and drew her knees closer to her chest. Her body jerked, to the thud of the slamming door.

“There is, a light in here, you know that?” the figure chuckled, flicking a switch on the wall, “or was you afraid of moving?” Vaas stood by the door, tittering to himself whilst leaning on wall, glaring at his captive that sat frozen on the floor. He glanced down at his hand and grimaced, sauntering over to the wardrobe, near to were Katerina was left. Her wary eyes followed him, her breath heavy.

Blood trickled from his palm. It was smeared on his boots, his trousers, his red top, and his skin - on his arm and on his neck. She trembled to sight of it, it alarmed her. She had already witnessed the dreadful torments that he was willing to inflict on her friend. What else was this ferocious pirate capable of? What other despicable crimes was he willing to commit?

From the wardrobe he pulled out a grey towel, stained with splashes of blood, and used it to wipe his hand but he grunted and kicked his feet. He sauntered over to his desk, his boots dragging heavily across the floorboards, and reached for the cabinet that was above it. From that he grabbed a bottle, with clear fluid inside. Placing the towel on his desk he began unscrewing the cap; Katerina winced, taken back the strong scent. What type of alcohol is that? She thought to herself, Fuck, that’s strong. I desperately hope that whatever is in that glass bottle, is nothing to him, and hardly takes effect. She gulped to the thought. If he was bad enough when sober, how much worse would he become when intoxicated? She glared at him anxiously, hoping that the lethal bottle would never touch his lips. He rolled eyes and tipped the bottle, and small amount of the fluid splashed onto his hand and onto the floor. Katerina winced again, at the burning strong smell of alcohol that drifted in the air. The blood appeared to evaporate off his hand; Katerina gazed in wonder. First slamming the bottle on the table, he took the towel and wiped his hand clean. “Why the fuck did waste that?” he muttered to himself, lobbing the towel on the table and calmly strolling back towards the wardrobe - standing in front of it, with the broken doors ajar.

With his back to her, he flicked off the two grey cotton belts that were coiled around his shoulders, onto the floor. He then unfastened the belt around his waist and dropped it beside his feet. It crashed loudly when it hit the wood due to the heavy metal weapons crammed inside the holsters. His fingers coiled around the edge of his blood-stained top, and then he hauled the red top over his head, chucking it behind him, close to wear Katerina was siting. She glanced up at him. Her eyebrow raised; she was intrigued, noticing he had minor burns on the upper part of his body – near his shoulder and on his bicep. His skin was a canvas for several scars – she saw them on his back and on his arm. His upper body was wide, strong and robust, and even his back was muscular. Tightly wrapped around his upper bicep, near his shoulder on his right arm, was a red bandage. He had another bandage, though this one was white, swathed around his hand and wrist on the same arm, and on his wrist, on his other arm, was thick, embroidered brown leather bracelet.

With another red tank top in his hand, he whirled his body around, tilting his head at Katerina with hilarity. Hastily she flashed her head away, and glared intently at the cracks in the floorboard, not taking the risk to peer up at him.

He chuckled, “were you eyeing me, Chica? What? Do I arouse you?”

She said nothing; did nothing, but stare distantly at the wood of the shack.

“Hey,” he purred softly, stepping closer, and as he did the floorboards creaked, which got her attention, but she still refused to move her head. “Hey,” he repeated, “look at me.” “Look at me.”