Page 188

“Show me,” he says.

“Now?”

“Immediately.”

28

Lex

The beadof sweat drips down my temple but I don’t dare wipe it away. Wicker and I have been waiting for Father in his office, the two of us silent and in position, for thirty minutes. I don’t dare look over at the fireplace.

Everything is a goddamn mess.

It’s been five days since he sent Pace down to the dungeon, two since I told him Pace wanted to talk to him. In that time, it’s been nothing but tension and obligations, the foremost of which has gotten a little lost in the fray.

I haven’t fucked Verity in a week.

The knowledge nags at me. Wicker was beside me in my bed on Sunday, when the clock struck twelve, and I just couldn’t bring myself to leave him. So I locked us in, and since no one was around to let me out, I didn't do it. Not the right way. The proper way.

Last night, I thought about it. Over and over, I’d imagine going to her, pulling out my cock, and giving her my seed like I should. All I would have had to do was keep my door open and lay down. But when the time came, I found myself engaging the lock.

“You still made your deposits,” Wicker murmurs, as if he’s reading my mind.

Down in the medical wing, with my syringes–yes, I made a deposit on each day. But one deposit is mediocre. Not excelling. And Wicker hasn’t exactly been up to his usual sexual magnitude, either. With Pace in the dungeon, that means our week has been paltry in terms of deposits.

“Just let him,” I say, picking at my cuticle. “If he wants to punish me, don’t fight him on it.”

Not that Wicker has the energy.

Tomorrow, his team is leaving for the All-Eastern tournament. I’m to accompany them as a volunteer medic, but Pace?

I guess he’s not going.

Next to me, Wicker looks like he went—and lost—three rounds with a gorilla. The worst is his face having taken the brunt of #99’s wrath. He’s an abstract of purples, blues and yellows, swollen and tender on every sharp angle of his face. I know that underneath his shirt, the rest of him doesn’t look much better.

But he’ll be able to play. He has to.

Leaning forward, Wicker props his elbows on his knees, gripping his hair. “I fucked up,” he says in a whisper. “I should have just gone to Mayfield.”

He’s been like this all week. Wracked with guilt about Pace. It’s what makes Father’s punishments so effective. It’s never about just one of us.

Pitching closer, I hiss. “Don’t fucking say that. If you think what Pace is going through is worse than bidding on a goddamn child, then you’re losing perspective.”

Still, when I dip down to eye him, there’s agony in his expression. “I should have given him the choice.”

“Wick, look at me.” When he does, my jaw locks. His right eye has a subconjunctival hemorrhage that’s still startling, even after a few days. The white has transformed to an eerie crimson around the blue of his iris. Exhaling, I insist, “There was no choice.”

His throat shifts with a swallow, but just as his lips part to speak, the door to the office opens.

We both go instantly rigid, keeping our eyes forward.

That is, until we hear a second pair of footsteps.

I know it’s him before I even turn. It’s like there’s a shift in the energy of the room, his presence a tangible hum. When I whip around to look, I see him shuffling through the door, head down, eyes hardened.

“Pace,” I say, moving to stand.

One glance from Father makes me sink back into my chair.