Page 26 of The October Trials

“Great choice,” I smirk. I pick up a heavy brass candle from the centerpiece. The wax pooling around the wick is boiling hot. “The house wants to know the name of the sister you left behind in Chicago when you took the money from your dad’s trust.”

She gasps, hands flying over her mouth.

“And while you tell us how you forged his signature, you’ll hold both palms under this candle. If it burns you before you finish, your story is a lie. The house hates a liar, and trust me, it always knows.”

“H-how did you—”

“Hands under the flame, Sloane. Now.”

She weeps, but she does it. The smell of singed skin fills the room as she screams the confession out through her teeth, her voice cracking each time she says her sister’s name. Every second she drones on, the scorching wax drips into her raw palms.

The sound of her crying heats the base of my skull, like a raw wave of pleasure tingling behind my eyes.

“See?” I taunt. “The truth does set you free.”

But she can’t hear me through her sobbing.

I move on to tattoo boy, turning my attention to him.

“Dare,” he croaks before I can even ask.

“Ah, have secrets you don’t want anyone figuring out, hm?”

“Just… get it over with.”

“Take the knife beside you,” I instruct. “Slice the palm of your hand, from left to right.”

He does it, trying to keep his fingers from trembling. His tough exterior is cracking over the course of the night, and it’s a glorious sight to witness.

“Pick up the salt shaker and pour it into the palm of your hand. The rest of it. If you scream, you start over on your other hand.”

He lasts twenty-two seconds before he bites through his own lip to keep from shrieking, a thin line of blood dripping down the corner of his mouth.

Fuck, I’m hard. Right through my black jeans. The sight of each contestant unraveling, watching their pathetic little illusions of dignity peel away layer by layer—it’s more euphoric than sex. Stronger than liquor.

Fuck.

“Your turn, pretty boy,” I mock, turning my attention to Christian.

I was going to do him first, but I figured I’d let him stew in anxiety for a little, torture him even more.

“Dare,” Christian spits. “Give me your worst, you sick fuck. It’s your fault I’m here anyway.”

That is true. But that’s simply because his girlfriend wouldn’t come without him, and he purposely failed the Legion’s initiation two years ago when his father tried forcing him to join.

Fathers and their need to toughen up their sons.

I smirk, reaching into the wooden tray and pulling out a pair of heavy iron pliers. “Your left pinky finger. You have thirty seconds to crush the first joint between the teeth of those pliers. You do it yourself. If you hesitate past thirty, I’ll do it for you, and I won’t stop at the pinky.”

“No! Fuck you! This is bullshit!” He shoves his chair back, standing up so fast it topples over behind him. He points a shaking finger in my face. “You’re singling me out! You’re fixing the fucking game because I called you out. Sloane and Dimitri barely got anything!”

I step into his space, chest to chest, letting him feel the wall of meat and bone in front of him. The terror rolling off him is intoxicating. It tastes like copper on the back of my throat. I want to drink it down.

“Twenty seconds, Christian. Nineteen. Eighteen.”

“You bastard—”

“Fifteen. And how about, if I have to pick up the tool, I’ll take the whole hand.”