Chapter 49
At first, people assumed Morrow’s voyeurism was sexual, but there was never any evidence of a sexual component to the murders.
—Case notes from inside Alan Morrow’s file, written by Donald Dellman
The Game Master curves the pole in a sweeping gesture toward me. “Go ahead.”
Nico pauses, and then he drags himself forward.
He reaches the pipe. He looks like he’s preparing for his own execution.
The skin on his face is freshly broken and swollen from the days-old cuts and bruises that were just starting to heal.
His lip is newly busted, and he runs his tongue over it to wipe away the blood, his lip glistening with saliva.
One hand braced on the cold metal above my head, he works at the rope with quivering fingers.
The Game Master watches. The pipe dangles from his grip like he’s ready to start smashing things again if this doesn’t go how he wants.
The rope slackens. I slide into a sitting position against the pole and wrench the loops of rope over my head and away from me.
When I meet Nico’s eyes, I see everything he’s trying not to say written across his face in a language I’ve learned to read.
The muscle jumping in his throat as he swallows.
The devastation pooling in his eyes, begging me to tell him there’s another way.
He would rather die than put his hands on me the way Billy made him put his hands on those girls.
I know he must be scared that this could trigger him to lose control, but he won’t snap. He won’t hurt me.
Just barely, I dip my chin.
He grips his temples. The sound that comes out of him is somewhere between a groan and a growl.
His hands drop to his sides and clench into fists, knuckles turning white.
The pain etched into his features doesn’t disappear.
It creases the corners of his mouth and eyes and transforms him into a predator.
He’s so terrifying that for half a second, part of my brain forgets this is a performance.
Which is exactly the reaction we need the Game Master to see.
“W-what are you doing?” I say, scrambling away from him, eyes wide. “Nico?”
Nico lunges forward to grip my ankle. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for permission to do this?”
I try to twist free, but his hand tightens. In his eyes, there’s no dry humor or affectionate annoyance he usually carries. He looks nothing like the Nico I know.
The Game Master positions himself in the doorway to block the exit. I can practically feel his attention crawling across my skin.
“I tried so hard not to want this,” Nico says, catching my other foot as I kick out at him. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to act normal, when all I can think about is this?”
Nico yanks both of my legs toward him. I skid across the gritty tile, back slamming into the floor and head cracking on the unforgiving ground.
Nico crawls on top of me. Cages me with his arms.
He seizes my good wrist and pins it against the floor above my head. I let out a small gasp. Shit, he’s strong.
“I tried… so hard,” he says, loud enough that there’s no question the Game Master can hear.
“Tried to convince myself I didn’t want this, because I knew, I knew I wasn’t supposed to.
I’ve spent seven years trying to untangle which thoughts are mine and which ones he planted, but with you?
Sometimes, when I touched myself, I’d see you laid out cold and still, and I’d finish anyway, hating myself the whole time but unable to stop because I liked it so damn much. ”
His lies sound real, but I know they’re only lies, and I don’t want to think about how much they must be hurting him to say.
The Game Master makes a considering hum that lifts every one of my hairs. “You know… I’m not sure I believe you.”
Nico’s body tightens, one hand still clutching my wrist.
“If you truly want to kill her, if this is really who you are, then prove it,” the Game Master says.
What?
“Do to her what you did to the others,” the Game Master says.
Nico lets out a stuttering exhale, as if someone had reached into his chest and wrung out his lungs. Pure terror flashes across his features as he stares down at me.
No.
It’s not fair to force him into this position again. I know what this will cost him, but he has to know it’s not the same. I wish I could tell him how much I want him, how many times I’ve pictured him above me. Admittedly, I never imagined these circumstances, but it doesn’t matter.
If I do nothing, he’s going to give up, and I can’t let him do that.
I cup Nico’s jaw with a shaky hand, then project like I’m performing for the cheap seats.
“You’re wrong about him,” I tell the Game Master, but keep my eyes locked on Nico. “He would never touch me.”
Nico’s eyes search mine.
“I trust you,” I assure him. “I know you’d rather we both die than lay a hand on me.”
He still looks confused. I can’t tell if he understands my meaning.
A roll of duct tape rolls across the floor, coming to a stop against Nico’s leg.
“I’m growing tired of listening to your pet,” the Game Master says.
I snap my head to glare at him. “Watch your mouth when you talk about me, you pencil-dicked pervert.”
Nico moves so slowly, his eyes staying on me as he picks up the roll of tape and gently tears a strip with his teeth.
He pinches my chin gently, and I can feel the tremors going through his fingers.
I try to ignore the walls pressing closer to me.
It’s not plastic. It’s just tape. I’ll still be able to breathe through my nose.
I part my lips, giving him permission.
Nico flattens the tape over my mouth with his palm, holding his entire hand over my jaw for a second before he smooths the creases. The touch is so gentle it makes me ache.
The Game Master’s breathing is shallow and excited.
Rage boils inside me. That motherfucker.
I didn’t think Alan Morrow was the kind of peeping Tom who’d get off on watching us.
Donny’s case file specifically said that Morrow didn’t get sexual pleasure from the murders, but I should’ve expected nothing less from this Big Brother fuck.
I can see the war happening behind Nico’s eyes. If I could become a sponge and absorb his pain, soak up every ounce of self-hatred radiating off him, and carry it in my own body, I would, but I can’t take this from him, and he’s just going to have to trust me.
I curl my fingers toward my palm.
Confusion pans across Nico’s face for half a second before understanding clicks into place.
His hand slides over mine, engulfing my entire fist in his grip, which must look like he’s crushing it.
I can barely move my fingers under his strength, but I manage to rub the inside of his palm with my thumb where the Game Master can’t see.
The sharp crack of metal clanging together makes us both flinch. The Game Master has slammed the pole against the door hard enough to leave a dent.
“DO IT!” he roars.
Nico swallows so hard his Adam’s apple bobs, and I watch in real time as his face goes blank.
I’ve seen him do this before, and I now know it’s what happens when he pushes himself so far inside his own mind that he becomes an empty shell going through motions, but watching it happen now, knowing I caused it, makes me want to throw up. I hope he’s going to his mountain.
Propping himself up on one arm, he lets go of my hand and drags himself on top of me, pinning me to the concrete with his body weight. He unties my sling with rough hands, then shoves my bandaged arm out of the way.
His eyes are so empty that I hope he’s detached himself from what’s happening. I literally just had the thought that I wanted to give him so many good memories that the bad ones don’t stand a chance. We’re not off to a great start, but we don’t have a choice. If we don’t sell this, we’re both dead.
He wrenches the zipper of my jacket down, splitting it to expose my hoodie. He hooks his fingers into my waistband, and I can feel his fingers trembling against my hip bone.
He locks his eyes on mine. I see the question there.
I do a slow blink.
He drags my cargo pants down, but then his fingers hit the jumpsuit I forgot I was wearing. He pauses. I know he’s trying to work out how to strip me just enough to sell this without leaving me bare and freezing on this tile.
But this is taking too long. I glimpse over Nico’s shoulder at the Game Master, who’s watching us through narrowed eyes, and I get a sinking feeling. Nico’s being too gentle. The Game Master will catch on if Nico doesn’t start taking from me, but he’s never going to do it on his own.
Which means I have to push him there.
Fuck I don’t want to do this to him.
I scream behind the tape. Nico startles at the sound, his whole body jerking. I drive my knee hard into his ribs.
A gasp punches out of him. His eyes meet mine, confusion and hurt surfacing, but then his expression hardens again.
His hands fist the collar of my sweatshirt and he tears it clean down the middle.
Fabric falls away and I shriek against the tape, thrashing under him.
He tries to pin my good arm, but I yank it free and swing wild, my fist connecting with his shoulder.
He catches my wrist mid-swing on the second attempt, slamming it down against the tile so hard the impact vibrates up to my shoulder.
I knew he was strong, but feeling it directed at me drives the point home. His grip is iron, and when I buck my hips to throw him off, he doesn’t budge—only shifts his weight, using his knee to hold me down while his free hand goes for my jumpsuit.
He tries to rip it, but the fabric won’t give—probably because of the iron plates woven into the fibers—so he splits the zipper down and strips my good arm out of one sleeve.
I twist hard to the left, trying to roll away, but he follows the movement, yanking the jumpsuit down my other arm until the fabric bunches around my hips.