Page 14 of Hallow’s Crown

The masks retreat, leaving me alone with him. He drags his thumb across my lower lip, smearing the blood where I must have bitten it.

“You know why you’re here?”

I shake my head, or try to.

He stands, towering over me, and the look on his face is pure hunger. Not sexual—not exactly—but the kind of animal focus that means he’s going to peel back every layer until there’s nothing left.

“You’re here,” he says, “because you survived things that should have killed you. Because you don’t fit any mold, not even our own.”

He circles me, hands behind his back, every movement slow enough to drive me insane. He stops behind the chair. I hear the clink of metal, and the chair back ratchets upright, pulling my arms with it. The pain is sharp, but I grit my teeth. I won’t scream for him.

He moves back in front. Crouches. Stares at my face, searching for weakness.

“Do you want to know what happens if you break?” he asks, voice low.

I find the energy to grin. “Do you want me to beg?”

He smiles, not kindly. “I want you to be honest.”

I let the silence stretch, counting every beat of my heart. Then: “You already know I’ll do anything to survive.”

He nods, accepting the truth. He places a gloved hand on my knee, squeezing hard enough that I feel it through the fabric. “We like that. We need it.”

He stands, and for the first time, his mask of control slips just enough that I see something behind it. Not kindness. Not even hate. Just a kind of lonely recognition.

“You and me,” he says, “we’re not so different.”

I bark a laugh. “Yeah? You get tied up for fun too?”

He’s silent for a long time. Then, “Sometimes.”

The way he says it, I believe him. My laugh is softer this time.

He leans in again, this time taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“If you wanted me to tie you up, you could have just asked.” I spit out.

A chuckle escapes him, rumbling outward from his chest and my eyes fall on the slight tent forming in his pants at my words.

I stare at him, and my brain short-circuits. For a second, there is nothing but the heat in my face and the twist in my gut, and I realize the whole fucking time I’ve been fighting him, part of me was hoping he’d win.

He sees it. Of course he does. He releases my chin, and for a second, I miss the contact.

A mask returns, pushing a cart with a glass of water, a protein bar, and something that looks like a blood pressure monitor. Suit picks up the water, tips it to my lips, and waits for me to drink. I do, greedily, and water runs down my neck. He wipes it away with his thumb.

The mask affixes the blood pressure cuff to my arm. I feel the squeeze, the release, the rush of blood back to my fingers.

“You’re not going to kill me,” I say.

He shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. “You’re useful. But the extent of that usefulness to my employer has yet to be determined.”

I want to say more, but the injection is taking hold again, and my eyelids are heavy. I fight it, straining to keep his face in view.

He bends close, and his lips graze my ear. “Sleep. Tomorrow is worse.”

I want to ask if he’ll be there when I wake, but it seems pointless.

Instead, I whisper, “Promise?”