For a moment, against my better judgment, I want to shield them. To keep them from becoming what I’ve already been forced to be.
It’s dangerous, the warmth that rises in me with them near. Familiarity softens the hard edges I have spent years honing. What gets me through each day is the steady burying of everyflicker of care, every trace of humanity. If I allow myself to feel, I invite hope, and hope is what nearly killed me before.
Even knowing that, a new thought surfaces as I watch them bicker a moment longer. It reminds me of Briar’s fire. Maybe in another world, I could almost see her among them, sharp tongue and quick fire, fitting into their chaos perfectly.
The memory of her earlier words threads through me then: limp in my arms, half-conscious, yet still managing to rasp that they were pussies and that she’d beat their asses if she could. It should have made me sneer. Instead, the corner of my mouth betrayed me, twitching before I could stop it. Even now, recalling it leaves the faintest ember of appreciation behind.
Between the three of them, I’ve experienced a brief, dangerous feeling of amusement. I shouldn’t let it linger.
But before I can smother it, it threads itself into my voice as I call out, “See you pussies at dinner.”
Both of them jerk their heads toward me, identical looks of shock flashing across their faces. Elias bristles, already searching for a retort. Callum only stares, as though he’s not sure he heard me right.
I don’t look back as I turn on my heels. “A little birdie told me that’s what you guys are,” I throw over my shoulder, letting the echo of her ragged voice settle in my mind, “so I’ll take her word for it.”
The lab is colder than the corridors of cells below it, sterile light flooding every surface until steel and glass gleam. I pass the tray across the counter without a word, the vials of blood lined in precise rows, red catching the fluorescence with every shift.
Part of me wants to follow them through the next door, to see what becomes of the blood once it leaves my hands. I have always been drawn to scientific research with the pursuit of answers, the methodical hunt for cause and effect. Knowledge has a gravity all its own, and I’ve never been immune to it. But I know too well what my father does to acquire those answers, and what he intends to sell them for.
My curiosity curdles before it can take shape, leaving only the taste of bitterness in my mouth.
I sign the ledger with my name, the time, the volume recorded with meticulous precision. Every drop has to be accounted for, every trade off marked in ink. That way, when something goes wrong, the guilty man is already written down for punishment.
The researcher on duty takes the tray and adds his own signature beneath mine. The motion is brisk and practiced. I give him a quick nod of satisfaction before quickly heading out.
The corridors above the lab are busier with more guards staffed here, due to the security clearance getting higher the further down you go here. The halls carry the clipped cadence of boots against tile and the low murmur of men trading shifts. Faces turn as I pass, and the looks that meet me are always the same, filled with respect and deference. They see me as my father’s heir, the one who moves through every level of this building without question.
The irony is not lost on me that I’m likely the one who wants it least of all. They see my chains as a crown.
At the end of the hall, the private elevator waits. I stand before the lens until it flashes green and the doors part. This shaft is the only line between the sublevels and the rest of the more public building. The cells, labs, weapons room and more are all buried deep beneath the surface. Above the surface lieoffices, conference rooms, and polished lobbies that wear the disguise of a business.
I step inside, press the code for my floor, and feel the quiet hum beneath my boots as the climb begins. The ride is smooth and seamless, carrying me as far away as I’ll ever get from this place. To the damn near top of this ridiculous monstrosity of a building my father constructed to flaunt his wealth in the middle of the countryside. The elevator halts just below the top floor, forty-seven stories up. The penthouse belongs to my father and no one enters without his invitation.
The level beneath used to be mine alone, but now my cousins have a suite here. The doors slide open to a hushed, cold corridor. The walls are lined with dark paneling as I begin the trek down it. Callum and Elias are in the suite to the east and mine is to the west, separated, though not far enough to forget they’re here.
My keycard unlocks my door with a muted click. The suite greets me with silence, as it always does. Inside, a wide sitting room welcomes me with dark leather furniture and heavy curtains drawn against the glass. It smells faintly of polish and nothing else. No warmth, no life. Just a fancy cage.
I strip off my boots at the threshold and keep moving on autopilot. The weight of the day clings to me. My shirt feels stiff against my skin, sticky where her blood seeped through when I carried her back. The thought of it gnaws at me, a low hum under my ribs. My body feels unclean in more ways than one. Not just the blood, but the stench still lingering on me from that torture room.
The bathroom light is harsh when I flick it on. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and instantly look away. I tear my shirt over my head and shove it down the chute to go to laundry before stepping into the shower.
The water hits hot, pounding against my shoulders, and still it feels insufficient. I lather my hands and drag them through my hair, again and again, until the suds run pink down the drain. I scrub until my scalp stings, nails dragging over skin as if I can scrape the stench of that room from me.
It doesn’t work.
I move to my arms, my chest, my hands. Soap, rinse, repeat. I lose count of how many times. Each pass leaves my skin redder and more raw, but I keep going. I can still feel where her blood dried into my skin. It clings to me, long after the shirt is gone.
I brace one hand against the tile, head bowed under the spray.
No matter how much I scrub, it isn’t enough. The filth isn’t in her blood touching me. It’s in what I was complicit to, what I have become in my father’s service.
And that will never wash away.
The sting on my skin lingers, sharp across my body. I stand there and let it burn into me alongside my shame, unsure if it’s a mercy or a curse.
If I can still feel this disgust, it means I’m not him, at least. Not yet.
I shut off the water and step onto the mat, dragging a towel around my waist. The air outside the steam is cool against my skin, making every drop cling and slide slow down the lines of muscle carved by years of discipline. My chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm beneath the gold chain my mom gifted me long ago, but my reflection feels hollow. The brown eyes staring back are lifeless.
