He glances at me, his eyes glinting dangerously.
“Careful, Bancroft.”
“I’m not asking as a teasing friend, but as your Marquis,” I murmur.
His jaw tightens.
“In that case,Marcus,” he drawls, effortlessly sliding back into his role as charmingly infuriating smug rich boy. “All I will say is there was a security concern, and so plans were changed.”
I eye him. “And your initiate…”
“Walked out with her clothes on,” he growls, the smile gone from his face. He brings a hand up and rakes his fingers through his hair, his sleeve sliding up to reveal a glimpse of the snake tattoo that coils from his wrist all the way to his chest. “More than one can say about yours, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before I can respond, the wall behind me slides open with the distinctive sound of stone scraping against stone. On this side, the wall just looks like part of one of the hallways that meander through Blackbriar Hall, complete with an oil portrait of the former governor of some forgotten township in pre-colonial America, and a random suit of armor standing by.
The other side of the door, however, like so many of the secret passages and rooms in this house, is something else.
Gideon steps out of the shadows of the passageway that leads to the torture chamber, and into the hallway where Carson and I are talking. His brow furrows.
“What’s the holdup? They’re both about to crack down there.” He lifts a shoulder. “Or, if you want me to keep pushing, that can easily be arranged?—”
“No, I’m coming,” I growl. “We were just…discussing something.”
Carson grins. “Yeah. I was giving him a hard time about his initiate coming back to the main hallmissing her clothes.”
Gideon’s brow cocks almost imperceptibly as he looks between me and Carson, shrugging.
“So? Initiations can get rough. Conway’s initiate came back without his shirt.”
Thank you, Gideon. Unlike Carson, he doesn’t sustain himself on being a needling little prick all the time.
Carson sighs. “Yes, becauseConway’sinitiate wasn’t fond of fire, and his ordeal ended with his shirt going up in flames. So I hear.” He grins savagely and turns to me. “Is that what happened with yours, Bancroft? Did all her clothes just…burn off?”
Gideon glares at Carson. “Do you haveanyconcept of chain of command?”
Carson sighs, rolling his eyes and looping an arm over my shoulder. “Yes, but I also have a spine, and don't enjoy kissing asses when that ass happens to belong to one of my oldest friends. But go ahead, Wick. Those boots aren’t going to lick themselves. Oh, and while you’re down there—heyback off, asshat!” He lurches away, ducking behind me as Gideon lunges at him with balled fists. “Marcus! Help me!”
I sigh and shake him off. “Can youbehave?”
“I anticipate historians pondering that very question in a hundred years, at the base of my statue, obviously.”
I roll my eyes and turn to Gideon. “All right, let’s go see our guests.”
“Fine,” he mutters, glaring at Carson. “But Bozo the fucking clown stays here.”
“No fair,” Carson sighs, gesturing to the open secret passage. “All the blood and guts and torture and fun shit is inthere!”
“Torturing people in order to get information rather than just to inflict pain is anart, not a game,” Gideon says quietly.
“Uh, okay, cool, Patrick Bateman,” Carson mutters. “Remind me not to ask you your thoughts on the latest Phil Collins record, you fucking psycho.”
Gideo sighs heavily and glances at me. “He’s just going to fuck up all the work we’ve done to get to this point.”
“I won’t say aword,” Carson pleads. “Scout's honor. I just want to watch.”
“AndI’mthe psycho…” Gideon mutters.
“Wick,” I sigh, putting a hand heavily on his shoulder. “I really don’t think it’s an either/or situation.”
