I keep hitting him while he muffles my rage-filled sobs.
“Allow me to keep you safe where I couldn’t with him.”
“Why the fuck are you telling me? What happened to all of your cryptic bullshit?”
He scrubs his gloved hand over his head. “I ignorantly believed too much information would harm you. It’s not a mistake I carry lightly.”
Both Lennox and I still as booted footsteps get closer. He pulls a black mask from his suit pocket, pulls it over his head, then tucks the bottom into his shirt so he’s a shadow. Just as the door opens and that mirror-masked motherfucker stands at the threshold, Lennox stretches his arm back, pushing against my chest. He’s wearing the same uniform as always, a three-piece suit. Smarmy fucking prick.
Even his voice is smug as he says, “It’s time for your initiation, dear nephew.”
His mask shows how crazed I look. My eyes are bloodshot, cheeks red and sore. Most importantly, it reflects my own loathing back to me because this is my fault too. If I didn’t leave, if I didn’t go to Delilah, he would be here.
Xanthe and Jasper are the only people Kid talked about. He said they’re in the other place. If I can find them, get them away from this prick, maybe I can make it up to Kid. Or it will ease a little bit of the guilt drowning me. Anything to stop this inky pit of grief taking over my life.
I force out through clenched teeth, “Let’s go.”
A flimsy organization can be dismantled at its foundations. One like this, so steeped in secrecy to the point the guards aren’t even trusted with the location, can’t be. Delilah was right about not knowing who I am, but I know who I will be. Every Kobalt’s demise.
Asher died.
Kane is dead.
Ghost doesn’t exist.
Whatever I become now is for Kid and to save my only living weakness. Delilah.
38
CHAPTER 38*
The three Kobalt men walk through the polished concrete halls of The Dollhouse as a unit. Kane believes he’s ready to face whatever Rowan gives him, but Rowan is resolved to punish him for disrespecting the creator of all three men.
Lennox follows them as his lifelong apathy begins to fade. The death of the child has broken the cage where his emotions were kept.A loss,he thinks as well as feels. It’s deeper than a loss of life when he’d rationalized the abuse the boy suffered. He told himself it was the lesser evil to ignore the boy, in turn preventing Rowan from becoming curious about him. The guards were taking liberties when they won, so he forced himself to suffer through touching another human to win those nights, providing a small comfort to his nephew.
But he has one nephew left. He silently vows to protect Kane from the sickening violence of their family, while Rowan promises the opposite as he leads them to the coldest area of the purpose-built cabin. He smiles under his mask when he sees the monster he’s nurtured obediently sitting in the corner on a barstool.
Sasha delicately pushes her finger under the mask covering her features. The face of the last person who angered her master is beginning to rot so she watches Kane, assessing his features.
A nice mask,she thinks to herself.
But Lennox says, “Down.”
She scowls at him, even though he can’t see her through the rotting flesh. She still obeys, out of loyalty for the man who found her on the brink of death. Due to her lexical–gustatory synesthesia, his words have always tasted like chocolate. A taste she has come to enjoy and only associate with Lennox.
“What do you want me to do?” Kane asks.
Sasha cocks her head to side as she slowly flutters her tongue against the inside of her lip to distinguish what his voice tastes like. It takes a moment, but when she manages to find the word, she spits the taste out. He tastes like ash, the tip of a cigarette or a cigar. Rowan switches the taste for one of her favorites as he gestures to the plastic tarp she hung to separate the room. “Walk ahead, dear nephew.”
Blood,she hums in her head.Master tastes like blood.
Her humming gets louder when he pulls the tarp aside for Kane to view his project. He looks at Sasha from the corner of his eye. The mask confuses him because of the make-up she’s applied to disguise the rot. He narrows his eyes at the curling edges at her hairline, but he tells himself it’s badly made. After all, who would assume anyone would consensually cut off the faces of her victims because she can’t bear to see her own features?
Kane focuses on Rowan again, but what he sees turns his stomach. The guard he disfigured has succumbed to their injuries as they lay face-down in the middle of another tarp covering half of the room. Livor mortis has begun to set in, the tarp reflecting the purple-red discoloration of their cheek.
Kane is excited about the prospect of having a release for his anger. Something to plug his grief into, but Rowan’s request isn’t for something as simple as cutting up a dead body.
“Entertain me, dear nephew,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him.
