Her desperate, frantic pleading when she begged me not to stop.
Her voice follows me in my dreams. Instead of the usual nightmares that leave me shaking and soaked with sweat, I wake up humping the fucking mattress like I’m some goddamned prepubescent degenerate.
Ever since I ran out of that room, leaving her—fuck. Justleaving herthere. Fucking Fate, I’m such a piece of shit. It feels like I’m watching my life through someone else’s eyes, going through the motions. Not even Roth could fully bury my demon.
Truthfully, I’ve been grateful for it. Even if the fucker got me into this mess, letting my demon slip means I can hide from the consequences of this monumental fuck up.
Luther hasn’t said a single word to anyone.
Killian won’t stop running his fucking mouth.
Roth is acting like nothing happened, but I know that he’s considering the dozens of scenarios where the consequences of my actions fall on me, and therefore all of us: if she tells Mercer or Church and I lose the internship. If she tries to blackmail me in exchange for her silence. If she extorts me for social capital. The fact that she hasn’t said anything,still, is shredding the tenuous thread of self-control that’s barely holding me together. Why hasn’t she said anything yet?
Fucking Christ.
“I need stronger drugs.” My statement interrupts whatever conversation Roth is having with the terrified tailor who’s fitting him for his suit, Luther just sighs from where he’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch from me, and Killian cackles from behind a display of pocket squares.
“Something on your mind, lover boy?”
“I hate you.”
“Bold move, insulting your supplier.”
“Thensupplyme something that fucking works.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get right on that. Just tell me again how tight her cunt was?”
“Ireallyfucking hate you.” The asshole just blows me a kiss and goes back to holding up pocket squares that look exactly the same to me.
“That should be all, Mr. Kovacs,” the trembling tailor stutters out. I can’t help but smirk. Roth has that effect on people.
“Thane.” His deep voice drags my attention from the man hurriedly getting out of Roth’s way as he steps down from the riser. “Your turn.”
“Roth—” I begin to protest, but his stern glare shuts me up, and my cheeks flush with shame as I get up and walk to the riser he just vacated. The tailor takes a deep breath to fortify himself before slipping on the custom suit jacket Roth ordered for me.The brush of cool, supple silk against my skin is yet another reminder of my own failings. Or rather, my family’s.
No one other than the four of us—and my father—know that the fortunes of House Aquae are long gone, squandered in the span of two generations. And it has to stay that way. Even the appearance of weakness would be exploited until there’s nothing left but the carcass of our family’s legacy. If my father knew that I’d told the other Heirs the truth, I doubt even my status as his one and only living heir, or the power in my blood would spare me from his retribution. Because the only thing he’s more desperate for than siring another legitimate heir, is reclaiming our family’s glory.
The longer I go without another hit of my blunt as the tailor continues fitting me for the suit, the deeper those feelings of disquiet sink in my mind, until I’m on the verge of drowning again.
“Are you almost done?” I manage to grit out at the tailor as he adjusts the hemline of my slacks.
“Yes, Mr. Rorvik, you can step down,” he responds with a shaky, perfunctory nod. I nearly crash into the sofa, scrambling to find my blunt before Luther hands it to me, standing and walking to the vacant riser for his own fitting. As the drugs begin to seep into my mind, Killian sits next to me and starts yapping about plants and shit that he’ll test in the next batch. The sudden, incessant vibrating of my phone as a barrage of messages and missed calls go unanswered interrupts him. He snatches it from the plush footstool where I tossed it earlier, but I still manage to see what my father says.
Soren Rorvik
Thane, pick up.
Pick up.
Call me back. We have important matters to discuss.
“God damn, what does he want now?” he sneers. I groan and slink further down into the sofa, pulling my hoodie over my eyes.
“Fuck if I know, fuck if I care.”
“Want me to answer?”
“It’s not worth it,” I murmur.
