Or else, someone else has.
“Faust.” Sylvan snaps his captain’s name. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this way; unsure of himself. Anxious. Edgy. His light eyes land on Faust’s fingers around my throat, where I’m sure number 33 can feel my pulse jumping, betraying my fear. “Let. Her. Go.” Sylvan speaks each word clipped and cold, as if he’s traded places with Faust for the night.
And in my mind, that’s what’s happened.
They are not playing the roles I assigned them, based on careful observation and hours of study. They are not at all who I thought they were.
“Why?” Faust asks softly. He shifts his arm up along my waist, so his forearm is just under my breasts.
Sylvan takes notes, his glacial eyes dropping down to my peaked nipples beneath the sheer black shirt I’m wearing. The one I donned when I thought this was some other sort of liaison.
“I know what you want to do to her,” Faust continues, speaking plainly. It’s the voice I’d imagine he’d use in a huddle. Still quiet, still calm, but matter-of-fact. Direct. You wouldn’t find video of him screaming in a locker room.
He would whisper, and everyone would lean in to hear what he had to say.
Sylvan takes another step closer. I watch the strong column of his throat roll, his gaze darting from my breasts to my face, then jumping to Faust. His hands are in the pocket of his pants, but I see the veins on his forearms beneath the rolled up shirtsleeves.
He’s a timebomb.
That’s the Sylvan I know.
But who is Faust?
“I know what you want to see. Her breathing stopped. Her body broken. Is it the blood you long for, or merely the death?”
My stomach tightens, my shoulders tense against Faust at my back.
He responds to my movements, his forearm pressing deeper against me, his thumb grazing the side of my neck.
Then he slides his palm up and grips my face, pushing my cheeks in, my lips forced together.
“Look at him,” Faust demands as Sylvan goes completely still. “Look at his gorgeous eyes and think about all the horrific things he wants to do to you.” Faust slides his arm down, past the hem of my skirt, then back up. He cups me, his fingers pressing against my hole, only my sheer stockings and cotton underwear stopping him from getting inside. “Does it make you wet, North?” He turns his head and breathes against my ear. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Your pussy is sopping.” Then he curls his fingers, and we all hear the rip of my stockings.
But only I feel him push my underwear aside and feel just how dirty I really am.
Because I want it, and I’ve never let anyone know.
I gasp, my cheeks heating as Sylvan watches me, a pained expression on his handsome face. His brows are lifted, his lips parted, and he no longer has his hands in his pockets. They’recurled into fists, and those veins against the back of them are so fucking hot. I wish I knew what each of them were thinking, what this is, but?—
“Can I?” he whispers.
The first return to the Faust I thought I knew. Understood, at the very least. Asking for permission. Acknowledging my battle with self-respect and limits, and how, with them, I thought I’d gained some grasp of self-worth.
I battle with myself as I lock eyes with Sylvan. His throat rolls as he swallows. He looks like he wants to lunge for me, save me, help me.
But I’m not so sure I’m not where I want to be.
“Tell me you won’t hurt me.” I command the room, I realize. Maybe Faust isn’t who I thought he was, but he’s still allowing me to be in charge. Make the final decision.
Sylvan cuts his gaze to Faust, waiting for him to answer me. And it looks like my blond boy will only allow one answer. The right one.
“I won’t hurt you, unless you want it.”
Sylvan’s shoulders seem to relax marginally, and he looks at me again.
I’m in charge.
“Then touch me,” I tell Faust.
