Chapter 13
Garron
I pull the mask off slowly. My fingers move like I’ve done this a thousand times; like I’m not just peeling back rubber but stripping away skin. I don't speak. I don't have to. That smug tilt to my mouth says it all. I liked what I did to her. Liked what she let me do.
We’re back in the house now. The curtains are drawn. The laptop is open, paused on the last frame of the livestream. Her thighs are sticky with fake blood. Her breath ragged, but steady. Her eyes glazed, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous. Something almost like consent.
Corwin won’t sit down. He paces the floor, mouth tight, jaw working like he’s grinding something between his teeth. Jealousy clings to him like sweat. He didn’t get to touch her. He didn’t get to hear her like that. Not the way Evander or I have.
“She didn’t run,” Evander says after a while.
“She didn’t scream either,” Corwin snaps. “Not like she should have.”
Evander sinks to the floor beside the coffee table. He pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and stares at the TV like he’s watching a different scene. One we didn’t get to see. One we might never understand.
“I think she likes it,” he says.
Corwin nods.
I scoff.
Corwin finally stops pacing. He stands behind the couch, arms folded tight across his chest, like he’s holding something in.
His eyes stay fixed on the screen, on the frame frozen mid-breath.
Her mouth parted. Her chest rising. That flicker of pain…
or was it pleasure? Hard to tell with her. Maybe that’s the point.
“She thanked us,” Evander says.
“She thanked the chat,” I correct, but even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe it.
“No,” Evander insists, softer now. “She looked right at the camera.”
“She looked at the camera because she’s a performer,” Corwin snaps. “She knows how to hold an audience. That doesn’t mean she knows us.”
“She does,” I say before I can stop myself. “She felt it. That moment in the dark. She knew it wasn’t just a scene. It was for us.”
Corwin’s knuckles go white where they grip the couch back. “You think a couple good fucks means she belongs to us?”
I turn toward him, slow and deliberate. “No. I think what comes after does.”
Evander doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the screen like he’s trying to memorize her breath. The way she licked her fingers. The way her thighs trembled, not from fear but from something that wanted to stay.
“She didn’t run,” he repeats.
“Not yet,” Corwin mutters. “But maybe she will. Maybe we just haven’t given her enough reason.”
The silence stretches.
“She’s still playing,” Evander murmurs.
Corwin laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She’s playing with fire.”
I move to the laptop and scrub the timeline back. Watch the last ten seconds again. Her eyes lock on the lens. Her lips part. The thank you. It’s soft. Almost tender. Almost like a confession.
“She’s choosing us,” I say.
Corwin pushes away from the couch, restless again. “Or she’s testing us. Same thing in the end.”
Evander looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “She cried,” he says. “And not just from pain.”
My hands curl into fists. Not because I’m angry. Because I remember it too. That sound she made when I touched her. Not a scream. Not a sob. Something more raw than either.
“She’s not scared enough,” Corwin says.
“Maybe she’s not meant to be scared,” I reply.
Corwin spins toward me. “Then what is she meant to be?”
“Our queen,” I say, calm and sure. “If she can take it.”
Corwin’s mouth curls into a grin, sharp and teeth-bared. “And if she can’t?”
“Then we bury her,” Evander says, and I don’t flinch. Because that’s not a threat. It’s a truth we all know. He rises to his feet. “She stayed,” he says. “Even after the stream ended. She sat in the blood and waited. Like she wanted more.”
I nod.
Corwin crosses to the window table near the far wall and grabs the blank mask form we keep for customization. He holds it up to the light, then sets it down and starts carving.
“New face,” he mutters. “When she sees me, I want her to bleed from looking.”
I don’t stop him. Let him have his craft. We all leave something behind when we make our offerings.
Evander disappears for a while. When he returns, he has an envelope. He slides it across the table without a word. I open it.
Inside is a button. A cream colored one, faded and worn. From the old navy cardigan she used to wear. There’s a piece of red thread still looped through the hole.
Below it, a Polaroid. Her at fourteen. Standing near the schoolyard fence, head tilted toward the sun. Not smiling. Not posing. Just existing. The last thing in the envelope is a note. Small. Folded twice.
You may not remember us. But we remember you.
I run my thumb over the button. The red thread trails against my palm. This is the kind of thing that would scare someone normal. But she isn’t normal. Not anymore.
“She’s one of us,” I say.
Corwin doesn’t look up. “She will be.”
Evander’s eyes are dark when they meet mine. “If she survives what’s coming.”
I nod once. Because that’s the test, isn’t it?
Not whether she can run.
Not whether she screams.
But whether she can stay.
We’ve broken things before. Girls who couldn’t hold the weight of us. Girls who thought they wanted this until we showed them what it really meant.
But Agatha is different.
She hasn’t run.
Not yet.
And if she passes the next test, maybe she never will.