The orderlies exchange defeated looks. They’ve all seen how he operates, and they know that fighting him is a losing battle.
“Besides, I did not come empty-handed.” He twirls his knife between his fingers, flipping it through the air like a performance. The men in the room lower themselves back into their seats, holding stoic expressions, as I’m certain they feel emasculated by one man showing up the lot of them.
“I brought favors for everyone, except—” He catches his knife and points it directly at Ruth.Oh no. “—You. I don’t know who you are.”
She stiffens beside me, her hands visibly shuddering over her silverware.
“This is Ruth,” I speak up, lifting my hand from my lap to cover hers.
Dessin follows my hand, watches it fold over hers, snaps back up to meet my pleading expression.Leave her out of this.
“Tomorrow is her first day.”Please.
He looks back at Ruth, studying her, catching her fearful body language to validate my words. He raises his chin in understanding. And with a synchronized sigh, Ruth and I both relax, but I keep my hand planted safely on hers.
“Let’s toast to Ruth,” he finally says, looking expectantly at everyone.
The conformists and orderlies lift their glasses slowly, cautiously, finishing off their champagne.
“Welcome to hell.” He winks at her. But I squeeze her hand tighter.Don’t drink it.Dessin turns back to the rest of the table. “I’ve been in the mood for murder as of late. I have an unorthodox thirst for it. It’s like an insect inside my brain readjusts the wires, and instead of thirsting for a glass of champagne, I crave the heat from fresh blood expelled from a collated artery to coat my hands and drip from my fingers.”
Someone drops their glass.That certainly took a turn.
“But I’m trying to be better, truly. Because I get to see that beautiful face every day, even though she can be unnaturally optimistic”—he points to me with his knife, smiles sadly—“and it can be mildly annoying. I’d rather not let her down.”
As if someone set me on fire, the heads of the room rotate, and the attention is solely on me. I don’t know what to do. Should I blink? Sigh? Keep my eyes plastered to my lap?
“That only leaves me with one option, correct? If those in this room continue to compromise my conformist with not-so-harmless pranks—I suppose my only course of action is to make a statement that is so enticingly extreme, it quells your thirst for Skylenna’s pain.”
There are nervous readjustments in seats, gasps, and fidgeting.
“Please, enjoy my dining favors.” He signals to the plate covers.
My body clenches—back pressed firmly into my seat. How far is he going to go?
The table takes their silver covers off of their plates, setting them to the side, then straining their necks to get a better look at what was under them.
From what I can see, they are photographs.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Belinda shrieks, shoving herself backward in her chair, away from the photos.
The rest of the table reacts similarly. Shocked expressions, sounds of bewilderment scraping from their throats.
Dessin’s eyes are dark, laser-focused, and as callous as a cold-blooded murderer.What’s on those photographs?
“You broke into our homes?!” the orderly that spoke up before shouts.
“Not recently,” Dessin says. “But I have been there many times in the last few months. You know, in case I needed to make a statement.”
And that’s when I see the conformist next to me tilt a photograph of what looks like an older woman in bed at night…
He’s been taking photographs from inside their house to scare them. I don’t know whether to be disturbed or impressed. He’s a volcano—inactive until something disturbs him, causing an explosion that destroys all in his wake.
“You’re doing all of this because you’re in love with her, aren’t you?!” the bold orderly barks, and I’m instantly on ice, captivated by a sudden urge to hear how Dessin responds.
Dessin tilts his head, lowering his eyes to the man with strawberry-blond hair and crooked teeth. “I’m starting to lose my temper with you, Ash,” he says quietly, dark eyes set ablaze. “And when I lose my temper, I tend to quench that thirst I was telling you all about. In fact, I’m imagining how far this flute glass will stretch down your esophagus. And don’t soon forget… I know where your sister sleeps at night.”
The room is frantic, the energy ricocheting off the walls, spewing from person to person. Dessin hushes them like children, softly and tenderly.
