Chapter 22
DEMON
“You’re pathetic.”
We stay silent as his icy voice wraps around our neck and squeezes.
“Weak.”
Our hands twitch at our sides. Quentin laughs quietly.
“Does that make you angry, boy?”
We say nothing. The silence ticks by.
Suddenly, pain explodes through our face as our head snaps to the side.
“I asked you a goddamn question,” Quentin barks.
“No, grandfather,” we snarl. That’s what he wants to hear.
Quentin sighs, then chuckles to himself. “I see. So now we’re lying, are we?”
We clench our teeth tightly, pain lancing through our jaw.
He sighs again as he walks over to stand in front of us. We brace ourselves when he raises his hand. It merely lands gently on our shoulder as his eyes stab into ours.
“You know I don’t say these things to bring you down, Vaughn.”
We nod.
“Pain…and resistance against that pain…is what breeds power.”
We nod again.
“I know my methods can hurt,” Quentin says quietly. “But it is those methods that got you to the top. Got you the throne that you were born to sit on.”
We nod slowly. “Yes. We understa—”
Fuck.
Our mouth snaps shut.
Too late.
Quentin’s eyes darken as he peers at us, then he exhales slowly, his gaze turning cold.
“We,” he growls.
“Grandfather—”
“We?!” he snarls, a little louder now. Then he barks a cold laugh as he turns, shaking his head. “So it’s back to that nonsense now.”
It was never away from “that nonsense”. But we know how much he hates the us, so we usually mask it around him.
“Who is it today, Grandson?” he snarls, whirling on us. “Which of your unbridled psychoses and fucking weaknesses am I forced to humor today, hmm?”
Our gaze stays locked straight ahead as he slowly circles around us.
The blow comes without warning, fire exploding across our back, making us hiss and clench our teeth tightly as our spine snaps tight.
“Well?!” Quentin snarls. “Is it the demon?” he barks with a mirthless laugh. “Or one of your other fabrications.”
“Grandfather—”
The pain comes again, making us hiss viciously through clenched teeth.
“Yes, Demon,” we snarl.
Quentin laughs coldly. “Jesus H. Christ,” he exhales as he walks back around to our front, twirling the leather riding crop in his hand. “The demon without claws, it appears. The demon who still needs me to GET THINGS DONE!”
We roar in pain as the crop slashes across our chest, then the backs of our arms when we raise them to shield our face.
He stops after a dozen or so strokes, panting as he backs away.
“I made you what you are, boy.”
We nod.
“I know,” we say quietly, swallowing bile as our skin screams in agony.
He turns to face me, the crop at his side.
“Lose the girl,” he murmurs. “She’s a distraction from my goals.”
We nod and look down at the floor.
This is how it always is with Quentin. He’s the one piece of us that refuses to be like the others.
To embrace the we.
We flinch when he taps the tip of the crop on our chest.
“She’s already too close.”
He drags the crop up to our chin, lifting it with the little strip of leather.
“And for that sin, there must be atonement. Without pain, there is no success.”
He pats our hand.
“You know what has to be done now,” he says gently.
Yes, we do.
We strip off our shirt and drop to our knees on the stone floor. Quentin quietly walks behind us, and we tense when the leather crop traces over old scars on our back.
“You realize I’m doing this for both of us, Grandson.”
“I know,” we choke.
“Count them.”
The first lash stings.
The second is like fire.
The third, and the two dozen that follow, are like razor blades flaying our skin open to the bone.
We keep counting.
We remain still.
We take it.
Because we deserve this.
We need this.
We are this.
And when it’s over, and we’re on our knees with blood trickling down our back and arms, our gaze falls to the riding crop gripped tightly in our fist.
She’s a bug in the system.
A flaw in the design.
A soft breeze, threatening to destroy the house of cards.
So why the fuck can’t we stay away from her?