My Lords never show up on campus. I check in regularly, texting them my whereabouts, asking if everything is okay. Their answers are short and non-committal. It’s obvious shit is hitting the fan on account of what Tristian and I did last night. Revenge was sweet, but ultimately fleeting. I don’t even glimpse the Counts on campus, so I miss out on the rush of satisfaction I’d get from seeing their pissed off faces. Most of all, I’m annoyed that Killian was probably right. We should’ve listened to him and waited for a better moment. That’s definitely the worst part.
It’s weird being on campus without them. You’d think I’d appreciate the freedom; no Tristian hovering around, forcing his nutritional lunches on me, or sneaking his hand under my skirt. No Rath, who would occasionally let his guard down long enough to let me watch him practice or help him with his work, but flipping on a dime, too moody and erratic to ever feel truly at ease.
And then there’s Killian. Normally, I barely see him during the day anyway, but he’s still a constantly ominous presence, lurking like a stormy cloud, threatening to terrorize anyone who crosses his—or my—path.
Even with them gone, I’m not alone. Marcus sticks to me like glue, hovering closer than the guys. For most of the day, he doesn’t speak or look me in the eye. I don’t blame him. I don’t want to look him in the eye, either. I know he was in the room that night when Killian forced me to my knees and made me suck him off in front of the whole frat. I doubt he cares about that. He’s probably been threatened with castration for even thinking of crossing some kind of line with me. That doesn’t make me feel any better about walking shoulder to shoulder with a stranger who’s seen me at my lowest point, debased and humiliated.
When classes are over, Marcus pauses on the quad. “Do you mind stopping at the Archer building? I need to pick up something from Coach.”
“Fine by me.” I’m not in a hurry to get back home and deal with the consequences of our impulsiveness the night before.
We head down to the athletic building, passing Mercer Field. The oval stadium holds a hundred thousand fans, and even empty, it’s impressive. Marcus leads us to the building’s main entrance. This part is purely administrative; tickets, fundraising, recruiting. I dutifully follow him down into the lower floor, where the air turns sour with heat and sweat. The players’ gym is down here, along with the trainers and coaching offices.
“Are you okay waiting for me?” he asks, looking harried and impatient. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“That’s fine.” I glance down the hall at the rows of team photos. “I’ll be out here.”
He ducks into the office, and I study the photos on the wall. It’s interesting, watching the eras roll by as they shift from black and white to color photographs. I spot Killian at the end. The most recent photograph. It’s not a flattering picture of him, obviously taken after a practice. His face is red and his eyes are hard like steel, hair dark in its dampness. Even here, he stands out amongst the team. A little taller, a little bigger. Arms decked out in ink. Jaw set, chin high. He looks like a criminal dressed in a disguise.
I guess I’m one to talk.
Still, it’s strange seeing him like this, knowing that mere hours ago I’d been tucked into his side, our naked skin melding together. It wouldn’t have occurred to me at the time, with all his stiffness and blank-eyed looks, but I see it now for what it was. Possibly, that was as soft as Killian gets.
At the end of the hall, there’s a small, open room with a trio of vending machines. Eager to clear my mind of Killian’s sharp version of softness, I allow the brightly colored candy to taunt me from behind the glass. It’s silly, but living with Tristian’s strict dietary concerns has turned my appetite into that of a twelve-year-old’s. I have a dollar in my purse. No one, not even Tristian, would be the wiser.
Feeling like a child sneaking into the candy jar, I find the crumpled bill and quickly shove it into the slot. It zips in and back out—rejected for being too wrinkled. I smooth it out and try again. Rejected. And again.
“Having trouble?”
“Just can’t get the machine to take my dollar,” I grumble, glancing back. The blood drains from my face. I barely feel the dollar slipping out of my fingers, falling at the feet of the man before me.
Saul Cartwright.
“It can be a little fussy,” he says, opening up his wallet. He thumbs through crisp bills and pulls out two ones. “Try one of these.”
“No. Um. No, that’s okay.” I take a step back from the man. He’s the Athletic Director at Forsyth; the second highest paying job, only below the president. He’s also one of my old online sugar daddies. But worse? He could be Ted. “I-I didn’t need candy, anyway.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone deserves a treat every once in a while.” Winking at me, he shoves a dollar in the slot. It accepts it instantly. But that’s not what has my attention. It’s the big, obnoxious gold ring on his finger. I instantly know it’s a frat ring, just like the one Killian and his dad wear. Instead of a skull, the icon in the middle is a bear’s head, jaw opened wide, fangs glinting. Around it are three greek letters.
DKS.
Delta Kappa Sigma?
Dukes.
“What are you interested in?” he asks, perusing the machine. “Chocolate? Something chewy? Something to suck on?”
My eyes dart up in stunned horror, but he’s focused on the row of snacks like it wasn’t even meant as innuendo. When I don’t answer, he punches in a code and the item drops to the bottom with a sharp clank.
“How about a good, old-fashioned candy bar.” Cartwright bends, head hovering mere inches from my breasts, and then shoves his hand through the little door, feeling around for the candy. He smiles up at me and a memory bursts into my mind—one from back in my sugar baby days. Him, on the other side of the computer screen, asking me to show him how I’d suck a dick.
“Use your water bottle,” he’d instructed. “Show me how you’d take care of my big cock, gorgeous girl.”
I faked my way through it, licking the sides and sucking the top. I moaned like I’d seen the women do in porn videos, but I just wanted the money—was desperate enough for it that I played it up as well as I could. Nevertheless, I had no idea what I was doing. He sure did, though. He jerked off while I fellated it, telling me all the while how beautiful and sexy and mature I was.
I was sixteen.
He straightens and holds out the candy bar. All I can think about is what his face looks like when he comes; flushed and slack. “Take it,” he says, expression friendly. “My treat.”
I’m speechless. Nauseous. Because I have no doubt this is a game—one orchestrated by a master manipulator. Is he Ted? Or did Ted set this up? It seems too implausible that he simply chanced upon me here, the one time I’m alone.
“Personally, I like salty stuff. Chips, nuts, popcorn. It’s terrible for my health, but you’re so young you don’t have to worry about that yet.” Cartwright looks at me again, but this time his eyes narrow, head tilting curiously. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“No,” I blurt, taking a step back. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re probably right. I’d definitely remember a pretty little—” His eyes catch on something. My wrist cuff, I realize. Seeing it makes his lips turn up at the corners. “—Lady like you.” His attention is drawn to something over my shoulder, and I whirl around at the sound of footsteps. I’m so relieved at the sight of Marcus loping toward us down that it makes my head spin. “Your boyfriend?”
“No,” I rush out, taking another step. “Just a friend.”
From the look in his eyes, he already knew the answer. “Be careful with these boys,” he says softly, eyes tracking my slow retreat. “We spoil them in the football program. They’re not used to hearing the word ‘no’.” Quietly, he adds, “Payne, especially.”
Marcus approaches then, nodding in greeting. “Sir.”
Cartwright squares his shoulders, plastering on a big grin. “You ready for the homecoming game this weekend, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cartwright gives him a firm nod. “Good to hear. You two have a pleasant afternoon.”
I don’t breathe until we’re back in the stairwell, trying to shake the tremors from my hands. I push the candy bar at Marcus. “Here, take it.”
Marcus looks confused, but does as he’s asked. “You don’t want it?”
I shake my head and start up the stairs. “I think I’ve lost my taste for sweets.”
The guys are all in a mood when I arrive home, but I’m expecting it. Tristian barely looks at me as he climbs the stairs to his room. Killian sits in his leather chair, his hot, furious eyes tracking my path across the hallway, as if our time together last night never happened. The only one who even deigns to speak to me is Rath.
“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the library. “I have a paper due tomorrow and my head is already throbbing.”
So that’s how I spend the next hour rigidly helping Rath with an essay on Robert Frost’s thematic use of nature. They weren’t kidding when they called the gen. ed. Lit requirement a coast. I’m pretty sure I covered this in ninth grade. I probably still have a similar essay saved somewhere in all my old things—provided my mother kept them.
I’m just grateful that he’s not making me go up to his room, still remembering the way he looked in that video, sprawled out on the bed, smirking up at the camera as I sucked him off. I’m not sure I’d be able to maintain composure if he tried another one of his ‘I need an orgasm before I can focus’ acts again.
Tristian and Killian filter in eventually, working on their own stuff, which makes the tension that much heavier. Killian’s anger has always been a heavy, palpable thing, and I can feel it now, like a weight bearing down on my shoulders. Suddenly I feel like an idiot for thinking I’d made any headway with some sex and barely consensual cuddling.
Rath is quiet and difficult to read, and I struggle not to look at him, bitterly searching for the fakeness I’d seen that night on video. All I see are the bare angles of his face, his snake bite piercings bobbing and shifting when he rakes his teeth over his lip, lost in thought.
“She’s putty, dude. The punishments don’t pay off, but you know what does? Being nice!”
“Wait.” He looks agitated and pinched as he rubs his temples. It’s getting late, and he keeps whining about a headache. “This is making no sense. I’m done trying to read this shit.” With a flick of his wrist, he flings the book across the table—not that he was reading it, anyway. I’ve been reciting the staple poems aloud. “My head is killing me. Just tell me what to write.”
I stare at him. “You want me to tell you what to write.”
He stares back. “Yes.”
“And then write it for you.”
His tongue peeks out to prod his lip ring. “Yes.”
“And then read it aloud, so you know what it says.”
He sweeps out a hand. “Exactly.”
Sighing, I push the laptop away. “Maybe I should turn it in for you, get the grade, and collect your whole fucking degree while I’m at it.” It’s too sharp—too insubordinate—but I can’t seem to get a handle on these feelings.
I hate that he was able to hurt me so badly.
I hate it more than I hate him.
From across the room, Tristian makes a sound, low and strained like an aborted chuckle.
Rath fixes me with a tight look, asking, “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“You have to put in some work here, Rath!” There’s this instinctual response to the way he straightens, a grim darkness falling over his features that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The spite pumping through my veins overpowers it. “I’ve made this as easy as possible, but you’re not even listening. You probably couldn’t even tell me what the last poem was about.” Annoyed, I shut the laptop. “You can’t just coast through life by manipulating people into pleasing you. I’m not some starry-eyed co-ed you can con into doing all your busy work. I’m your Lady. Maybe it’s time you started treating me like one!”
There’s a dangerous glint in his eye, and I don’t need to look at Killian to know he’s giving me the same threatening stare.
Rath’s lips part, probably to tell me he was fine making other people do this for him. He’s not wrong. He’d only agreed to be tutored because I browbeat him into doing it. It doesn’t make it any better. He’s taken advantage of it quite enough.
Before he can voice whatever mean, barbed thing is sure to emerge, Martin sweeps into the library. “Lady,” he says, lingering at the door. “I wanted to remind you about your meeting tomorrow afternoon.”
“Meeting?” I look over at Tristian, who’s still staring at me with some unholy mixture of proud displeasure at my outburst.
“The Homecoming preparations?” Martin looks at the guys, exasperation tinting his features. Clearly, they were meant to inform me of this. “It’s a gathering, of sorts. The Royal girls are meeting to coordinate the weekend’s social events—primarily the annual Forsyth carnival, which is the biggest fundraiser of the year.”
I look around the room, all too aware that my little fit of temper has soured the mood even further. “Let me get this straight,” I say, feeling rigid and far less fragile than I should. “You want me to get together with the bitches who lured me into getting kidnapped so we can…what? Plan a party? You’ve all lost your goddamn minds.”
Rath gives me a long, snide glance. “You want to be treated like our Lady? Well, here it is, Sour Cherry. This is part of the job. Deal with it.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Killian shifts in his chair across the room, propping his elbows on his knees as he pins me under a glower. “It’s tradition. You’re the Lady of this house, which means you have to represent us.” After a moment of watching me gape at him, he looks away. “Trust me, none of us are happy about it either.”
“Then get me out of it!” God, I’ll look like a fool showing up around those girls after what happened. The kidnapping was bad enough, but the fact I was fooled by a bunch of girls with fake tits and expensive shoes? That’s another level of humiliation. I lived on my own for two years. I’m not some spoiled country club cunt. “What if they try something again?”
“There’s no getting out of it,” Tristian says, mouth pressed into a tense, unhappy slant. “But you don’t need to worry. In fact, we’ve worked out a plan to keep you safe.”
Rath sinks back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think the royal ‘we’ is overstating our agreement a bit.”
I look between them, noting the agitation. “Are you going to give me a gun?”
“What?!” Killian looks at me like I suggested he skin a cat. “Fuck no! Are you insane?”
“Maybe,” I snipe back. “Attempted rape might have a way of doing that to a person.”
An ominous shadow falls over Killian’s features. I’ve seen it before, the way his jaw goes tight, knuckles a stark-white as he clenches his palms together. My stomach turns uncomfortably at the sight.
“Marcus told us Cartwright approached you at the athletic building today.”
Shit.
So that explains why Killian is so pissed at me. Freaking Marcus. Should have known he’d be their eyes and ears.
“It was no big deal,” I insist. “It’s not like I approached him.”
Tristian closes his book. “Story, you being approached by any man is a big deal, but one of your former daddies, to boot? That shit isn’t flying.”
Killian jabs a finger in my direction, eyes sparking. “And you haven’t spoken a single fucking word about it. We’ve been here for hours, and what do we get? Fuck-all.”
“Nothing happened!” But the truth is, I was scared. It’s against the rules for me to speak to other men, but I still don’t know how to handle it. Just turn around and walk away? Look like a fool? The situation was unbearable enough without having to navigate my limitations as their Lady.
In a calm, measured voice, Tristian asks, “Did he say anything inappropriate?”
“Not really.” I shake my head, giving him a hapless look. “I don’t think he even remembers me.”
Tristian arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
No. Not in the least. “Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Killian says. “We’ve got busy schedules coming up, you included. There’s shit you’ll need to do without us glued to your side all the damn time—like the homecoming prep.”
I deflate at the resolve in his eyes. “So, what are you going to do? Are you going to send Marcus with me?”
Rath scoffs, cracking one eye to glare at me. “You think we’re the only house with rules? None of them are going to send their girls to a meeting with some rival frat member lurking in a corner.”
Tristian shakes his head. “We came up with a better solution. Something a little more…permanent.”
Permanent?
A chill of unease creeps up my spine.
“You and Killer came up with a solution,” Rath corrects, throwing them both a look. “Don’t bring me into this.” To me, he gives a blank, dead-eyed look. “Consider my conscientious objection a willingness to do some of that ‘busy work’ you think so highly of.”
I swallow thickly, wondering, “What kind of solution?”
“Martin,” Killian says, thrusting his chin at the man. “Has Ray arrived yet?”
Martin nods. “Thirty minutes ago. He should be about set up in the basement.”
“Basement?” I stand, knocking back my chair. “What’s going on?”
My heart thumps hard against my ribcage, lungs feeling suddenly constricted. I haven’t been down to the basement since the night Killian punished me in front of the whole frat. The settings of all my nightmares used to be our old laundry room, but now it’s definitely that room down there, all dim and full of the memory of their cheers and taunts.
Tristian appears in front of me, reaching up to frame my face in his wide palms. He searches my eyes, and whatever he finds makes him frown. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. We’re doing what we need to do to keep you safe. You understand that, don’t you?”
The last time they wanted to keep me safe, I’d gone upstairs to lose my virginity to my stepbrother.
“I’m not going into the basement.” I try to inject my voice with as much determination as I feel, but it cracks, coming out plaintive and pathetic.
“You will,” Killian says, standing from his chair and stalking forward. “You can either walk or I’ll carry you, but you’re going down there.”
Impulsively, I make a dash to the door. It’s laughably futile. I don’t even get out of the room before muscular arms wrap around my upper body and lift me off the ground.
“If you’d calm the fuck down, we could talk this over!” Killian grunts, biceps bulging. “Fuck it. Rath, get the door.”
“No!” I shout, squirming against him. “Killian, please don’t make me go down there. I’ll do anything. I’ll sleep for you! I’ll write Rath’s paper, I swear!”
He pauses so briefly that I might have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for an opportunity to get away. It doesn’t last long enough to try. He hauls me out of the library and down the hall like I weigh nothing, barking at someone to, “Open the fucking door!”
The door to the basement.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I try, arms aching from his grip. “We can talk, okay? We can talk it over, I’ll listen, I promise.”
Killian must decide the time for that has passed, because as soon as Tristian swings the door open, he’s hoisting me down the stairs. I fight, using my feet to drag along the walls, but he just tightens his grip, making curt, annoyed sounds at every thrash.
“You’re being fucking ridiculous!” he spits.
The first thing that registers is that the frat isn’t waiting for us in the meeting room. The second thing that registers is that someone else is. There’s an old guy standing next to a table that’s padded and sterile-looking. His gray hair is slicked back into a ponytail, and he doesn’t look the least bit bothered by all the commotion I’m making.
A table with metal instruments waits nearby.
“Where do you want her?” Tristian asks.
The guy answers, “Put her on her back.”
“No!” I strain toward Tristian. “Please don’t do this to me. Whatever it is, please don’t. Please?”
“Hey, hey,” he says, stepping in front of Killian. He touches my chin, giving it a soft stroke with the pad of his thumb. “This isn’t a punishment, sweetheart. We’re doing this because it’ll be best for you. But the harder you fight, the more difficult this is going to be. Settle down, and it’ll be over quick.”
My legs give out, but Killian has me crushed so tightly to his broad chest that I just hang there, limp. Tristian is a lost cause. Rath lingers by the door, arms crossed, eyes fixed to his shoes. Conscientious objector or not, he won’t be my savior. Instead, I twist my neck, trying to catch Killian’s gaze. “You said you’d protect me,” I cry, grasping his forearms. They’re as immoveable as steel.
If I hoped my mention of last night might spark something sympathetic in him, then I’m sorely mistaken. His reply comes out harsh, forced through gritted teeth. “That’s exactly what I’m fucking doing!”
That’s how I know that whatever is about to happen can’t be good. It’ll be pain and humiliation and a long night spent licking yet another wound. I rear back and fight against Killian with all my strength. Naturally, it’s useless. He plunges me onto the table and plants a palm on each shoulder, pinning me down.
“Hold still,” he barks, “or we’ll have to tie you up.”
I pause, chest rising and falling as I try to settle my breathing. “Please don’t tie me up.”
Tristian strokes my hair. “Can you promise to behave?”
I nod, no longer able to hold the tears back. “W-will you at least tell me what you’re going to do to me?” All sorts of horrors crowd my mind. Gruesome, sexual, invasive things.
Tristian wipes a tear off my cheek, his blue eyes holding mine. “Ray’s going to put a GPS tracker under your skin—just behind your ear. That way we’ll always know where you are.”
My breath stutters to a standstill, filling my lungs with an ache. “What?” Of all the things that came to mind, that wasn’t among them. I’m not twisted enough to have thought of it. “You’re implanting me with a tracker? Like I’m a goddamn dog? This can’t be legal!”
Killian’s palms are heavy and unyielding on my shoulders, and when he bends down to look me in the eye, it’s only to hiss, “Maybe if you weren’t talking to shady old perverts like a bitch in heat, we wouldn’t have to treat you like one.”
My jaw goes slack, both at his words and the naked malice in his eyes. For Tristian, this isn’t a punishment.
For Killian?
It is.
I get my hand loose and slap my stepbrother across the face, palm stinging with the force of my strike. I watch as his head jerks—just barely—and then his eyes are suddenly blank.
Empty.
Terrifying.
Rath appears between us, wrenching Killian away. “Don’t,” he snaps, putting a hand on his chest. “Remember last time? Remember what you said?”
“Tie her down,” Killian snarls, trying to lunge past Rath, who holds him back. “Tie her the fuck down or I’ll do it myself, and I promise you, I won’t be gentle.”
“Fine,” Tristian says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll tie her down, but you need to get the fuck out of the room.”
His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “No.”
“Yes,” Rath says, pushing him back. “You’re too pissed off. You’re going to lose your shit and fuck everything up. Get out of here. We’ll take care of it.”
Killian glares at the three of us but ultimately turns on his heel, storming out. I don’t take another breath until I hear the door slam at the top of the stairs.
Softly, Tristian says, “Sweetheart,” and strokes my hair back. “We’re going to have to do this. I know you’re upset, but we’re not doing this to hurt you. I know how it looks, but we’re not even doing it to control you. There are some bad people out there who have hurt you before and may hurt you again. You understand that, don’t you? You understand that I just want to keep you safe.”
The fucked up thing is, I almost understand. Tristian takes care of his things, and that’s what I am to them. A thing. A possession. A shiny trinket. A prized fucktoy. This and the occasional sugary treat are as close as Tristian probably gets to showing affection for someone.
Sighing, he adds, “I don’t want to tie you down, Story.”
My lip wobbles under the inevitability of it all, another tear making a track down my temple. Tristian catches it before it falls. “Will it hurt?”
Tristian looks over his shoulder at Ray. “He’s going to numb you up first, so it’s just one quick shot. You can handle that, can’t you? You can be a good girl for us?”
From his spot by the door, Rath shakes his head, muttering, “Give me a break.”
Sniffling, I stare up at the ceiling, feeling brittle and stiff. “I’ll…be good.”
He looks relieved, bending to pluck a slow, chaste kiss from my lips. “That’s our Lady. I’ll get you something nice, okay?”
I don’t answer, taking the time to gather myself up, just like Ms. Crane had said. All the parts of me I want to keep—I lock them away, tight and safe. I’m not this girl who’s about to be leashed to three monsters. I’m the girl who’s engineered their fates.
This isn’t a punishment.
It won’t be a defense.
I’ll make it into another weapon for my arsenal.
“She’s done,” Ray says, stepping away from the table. In the end, taking away my freedom was just as quick as Tristian promised. A couple of pricks behind the ear to accompany the couple of pricks waiting by my side.
I didn’t even flinch.
Tristian helps me sit up, but I shrug him off. The room is quiet while Ray packs up and prepares to leave. That doesn’t take long either. Idly, I wonder how much he’s getting paid to force implants into helpless women. What’s the cost of someone’s autonomy, per billable hour?
Even after he’s gone, I don’t move—staring at my hands, my shoulders feeling slumped and heavy. All the fight has been sapped out of me, leaving me hollow and cold. The spot behind my ear doesn’t hurt. Not yet. But I almost wish it would. It’d be a reprieve to feel anything other than this gaping pit of hopelessness.
“Come on,” Tristian says, easing me off the table. “Let’s get you upstairs, clean you up.”
Freezing, I finally feel the seed of something panicked and desperate. “Don’t make me go to Killian’s room. I can’t…not tonight.” Even the thought of playing dead while he fucks me makes my stomach heave.
Tristian shoots Rath a look. “It’s fine. You can go to your room,” he tells me.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “No. That won’t work. He’ll just…” I swallow, knowing that my eyes must be glassy and red. “He has a key.”
Nodding heavily, Tristian offers, “You can—”
I cut him off before he can finish. “Can I stay with you?” I ask Rath.
If he’s surprised at the request, it doesn’t show. He gives Tristian a look before agreeing. “Okay,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Just come up when you’re ready.”
Tristian watches me as Rath leaves, his boots loud and heavy against the stairs. “You’re mad at me,” he observes, head tilted as he searches my eyes.
When he reaches for me, I flinch away. “Don’t.”
His eyes go shuttered, that flawless mask of his clicking firmly in place. “Be mad, if that’s what you need. I’d rather have you mad than constantly at risk.”
Jesus, he really believes that, doesn’t he?
He doesn’t stop me when I leave the basement, going up to wash my face and collect my toiletries. Earlier, I’d been awash with dread at the thought of going into Rath’s room again. Now, every room feels tainted in one way or another. I spend a long time in my bathroom—not even bothering with a lock—sweeping my hair back to look at the injection site. I have to peel back a bandaid to get a look, but when I do, it’s almost disappointing. Something so significant should leave more than a piddly little dot of a scabbing flesh.
I don’t leave for Rath’s room until over an hour later. I skitter past Killian’s door like the little mouse they’ve always accused me of being, climbing the stairs to the third floor with a racing pulse, as if he were behind me, trying to catch me by the back of my neck.
I give Rath’s door two knocks before pushing it open. It’s dark inside—darker than it used to be—messier, too. But just like always, there’s music playing. The melody is bittersweet and haunting. I tiptoe over the threshold, peering around the space. But he’s not in the bed or at the piano. There’s a flicker of light that draws my attention to his bathroom door, cracked open to reveal a soft glow.
I approach it nervously, still feeling ill at ease from my journey through the halls. Peeking through the gap, I see the flicker is actually a candle. Three, maybe more. Moving closer, I hear a soft swish of water, daring to push it open and step inside.
I’ve never been into Rath’s bathroom before. The mornings I awoke in his bed, he always claimed it first, leaving me to go back to my own. It didn’t bother me. I enjoyed having a place of my own, for all the flimsy privacy it offered.
Now, I see I’ve been amiss.
There’s a large claw-foot bathtub at the end of the room, illuminated by only the light of the candles and the moon shining through the open window. The air is heavy with steam—steam and pungent smoke.
Rath has his head tipped back. His eyes are closed, arms draped leisurely around the lip of the tub. In one hand, he’s pinching a blunt between forefinger and thumb. The fingers of his other hand are rising and falling against the porcelain, as if he’s following along to the melody coming through the speakers. He looks loose and unguarded, hair so haphazardly damp that it’s clearly the product of his wet hand having pushed through it at some point.
I get this ironic and completely misplaced notion that I’m intruding on a personal moment. Considering I’m recovering from a biological AirTag, the thought pulls a scoff from my throat.
Rath’s eyes blink open at the sound.
They’re so black in the darkness of the room that he looks like a demon, the rings in his lips glinting like fangs. Without breaking my gaze, he brings the blunt to his lips, sucking a slow inhale. He holds it in his lungs, watching me with those demon eyes as he lets it out in a lazy plume of smoke.
“Water’s still warm.”
His voice is quiet and rough.
An invitation.
It’s a long moment before I decide whether or not to accept it. When I see the carton of Epsom salt at the foot of the tub, it dawns on me that Rath had been the one to tell Ms. Crane to take care of me. To ask after my wellbeing. To make sure I wasn’t hurt.
It doesn’t change anything.
I wind that fact around my heart like barbed wire as I reach for the hem of my shirt, lifting it over my head.
