I released his neck and walked to the pantry. Retrieved a twenty-pound bag of rice—long grain, nothing fancy—and returned to the center of the kitchen.
Yusef was standing where I’d left him, still crying, still clutching his reddened cheek.
“Remove your clothes.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Your joggers. Your shirt. Remove them. Down to your undergarments.”
“No.” He shook his head, backing away. “No, I’m not?—”
“That was not a request.”
Something in my tone must have communicated the futility of resistance, because after a long moment, his trembling hands went to the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head. Then his joggers, stepping out of them with the reluctant movements of a boy who knew he had no choice.
He stood before me in his boxers, skinny arms wrapped around his skinny chest, shivering despite the warmth of the house.
I tore open the bag and poured the rice onto the floor. It cascaded across the marble in a white wave, settling into a rough rectangle about three feet wide.
“Kneel.”
“Please—”
“Kneel.”
He knelt. The moment his bare knees hit the rice, he hissed in pain. The grains were small but hard, pressing into his skin with dozens of tiny pressure points that would only worsen with time.
“Arms extended. In front of you. Parallel to the floor.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can and you will.” I retrieved a wooden spoon from the drawer beside the stove. “This is how men are made, Yusef. Through discipline. Through discomfort. Through the understanding that weakness is not tolerated and excuses are not accepted.”
He raised his arms, trembling, tears dripping from his chin onto the rice below.
“Your father will be here tomorrow,” I continued, pacing slowly around him. “Demetrius has made mistakes in his life—many of them—but he is still a man. He can teach you things that your aunt never could. Things that Prime, despite his skills, has clearly failed to instill in you.”
“Prime taught me?—”
The wooden spoon cracked against his back. He cried out, his arms dropping.
“Arms UP.”
He raised them again, breathing harder now.
“Prime taught you nothing but softness. Attachment. Emotional weakness.” I circled him like a shark. “When I assigned him to make contact with you, I expected him to assess the situation and report back. Instead, he inserted himself into your life. Became attached. Fell in love with your aunt like some lovesick teenager.”
I stopped pacing, staring out the window at the manicured grounds of my estate.
Prime had been one of my best. Perhaps the best. Disciplined. Precise. Ruthless when necessary and controlled when required. In all the years I’d known him, he’d only loved one woman—and that had been a carefully managed situation that served my purposes.
But this? This obsession with Zainab?
It had made him reckless. Made him challenge me in that prison hallway like I was some common adversary rather thanthe man who had shaped his entire existence. Made him forget who held the power in our arrangement.
I would remind him. After I secured my grandson’s future, I would have a conversation with Prentice Banks about loyalty and perspective. About what happens to soldiers who forget their place.
If I had the time.
