2. Luna
LUNA
Abath has already been drawn by the time Sawyer, Aiden, and I reach the washroom in my quarters.
Steam rises from the tub and carries the scent of lavender petals floating atop the water, fanning its heat across the room until moisture warms both sides of my neck and tickles the backs of my ears. Along the walls of the room are vanilla scented candles that flicker and fight the lavender.
Sawyer’s sour stench overpowers it all.
Not only the reek of earth and sweat, but the metallic tang of infection—cheese left to spoil.
Two gashes on his back seem to be the bulk of the source.
Each slice of ripped tissue is red and angry, pus clinging to the edges.
My nose wrinkles as I inspect each until he turns toward me with eyes as foreign as his smell. Expectant. Silent. Angry.
“Undress,” I command, my hands clasped behind me as I slowly make my way toward the bath. Sawyer doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Not even as my fellow Keeper, Aiden, steps forward with his electric baton. It crackles as Aiden jabs Sawyer’s side, the sound so sharp a tingle dances along my ribs. Sawyer merely grunts and hunches as he rubs the two-pronged burn. As if he might ease the ricochet throttling his nerves.
Useless.
I open my mouth … then close it.
I would never repeat myself for another Dreg.
Sawyer lengthens his spine and looks straight ahead with the most furious eyes even as his blue lips shudder. As he kicks off a shoe, his jaw ticks as if the maneuver is painful.
A good sign. The nerves aren’t too damaged.
He kicks off the other before moving to his shorts and boxers, unveiling the full extent of his suffering.
Skin that’s freezing and blue, dirty and scraped, bruised and scarred.
It’s only been a few weeks, but his body has already begun eating the fat around his sunken collarbone and cheeks.
The necklace I once fingered while he spoke of its significance is missing.
I stare too long, breath caught in my lungs. When I catch Aiden watching me, I release it.
Bending over the tub, I drag the backs of my fingers across the warm water. Not hot enough to shock Sawyer’s body but warm enough to ease his trembling.
“Get in the bath.”
Without hesitation, Sawyer eases into the tub, cringing as sensation bites his skin back to life. When he’s seated, I tap the porcelain. “Hands on the sides. Do not move them.”
His eyes point straight ahead as he curls his fingers over both sides of the tub and grips until his red knuckles go white. I watch until he releases—only a few seconds before the pain makes him relent. Unless a Dreg is a troublemaker, it’s usually the hands that receive the worst injury.
Aiden drags a low stool over for me to sit and offers me a cloth one shade lighter than his long, ginger hair. A belonging of Zephyr’s. She was always trying to add color to my life.
I close my eyes a moment before accepting the offering. “Thank you, Aiden.”
He distances himself while I perch on the stool and dip the rag, a petal sticking to the cloth. I peel it off and wring water over Sawyer’s shoulder. He tenses but remains silent with his hands obediently grasping the sides of the tub.
I repeat the maneuver and wring water onto Sawyer’s chest. The gentle lapping of the rag is both soothing and wrong. Every graze of his skin holds intimacy too inappropriate for the moment. Though they were only meant to be softer on Sawyer’s eyes, every flicker of candlelight feels like a taunt.
Still, I keep my movements slow and delicate, careful not to irritate his wounds. Only when his shaking calms do I squeeze soap onto the cloth and slide it down his arm.
I go about washing him while he stares at the wall, eyes glazed, mind drifting somewhere else. His island, maybe. Just not here. Not with me.
At my prodding, Sawyer leans forward so I can clean the wound on his back. Infected—without question—but not quite as bad as I feared.
“Have you felt chills?” I carefully dab.
No answer.
I pause. Aiden’s boot scuffs the tile as he shuffles, but I raise a hand to keep him still.
Teeth sink into my inner lip while I lie the cloth on the edge of the tub. I run my hand up the back of Sawyer’s neck and over his scalp, fingers combing through thick, luscious hair. Greasy and dirty and somehow, still as pleasant as I’d imagined.
My palm settles on his forehead. Ice cold.
Water laps as his body shifts, and his hands lift off the porcelain only to lay back down.
I remove my hand, pick up the cloth, and go back to tending to the wound.
“How bad is it?” I nearly startle at his voice.
“No fever means no sepsis. You’ll be fine.”
He laughs. His hands leave the sides of the tub to scoop water onto his face. He scrubs at his eyes before laying his hands back on the porcelain. If he knows he’s just been disobedient, he doesn’t show it. There’s no smirk. No mocking glance.
Aiden and I exchange a look. His brow raises.
I shake my head.
“Keep your hands on the sides of the tub, Dreg,” I calmly admonish.
He scoffs.
Brave… Very brave.
When I’ve finished cleaning his wounds, I take a handful of his hair and slowly, gingerly drag him upright. I pour soap into my palm and work to keep my movements mechanical as I wash his scalp.
Oddly challenging.
My fingers collect dirty suds as I glide along blond strands, unusual energy buzzing in my fingertips. I pull back, flex my hands to release it. Only for it to return, then spread—the sensation jumps up my arms and settles deep in my belly.
Shiver.
I glance at Aiden, but his perpetual glare never leaves Sawyer. Even if he knew what was happening inside my body, he’d never acknowledge it. His loyalty lies with me. The mutilated stump where his ear used to be is forever a reminder of that.
I rinse the rag in the bath—practically rusty mud at this point—before gently smoothing it across Sawyer’s cheekbone, up his temple, across the creases in his brow. Dark purple rings have formed in the sunken valleys beneath his eyes, but otherwise, his pretty boy face has been spared.
“You don’t look so boyish with a beard.”
His head jerks as if my hand has caught fire, sunken cheeks pinching with anger. “Fuck you.”
Aiden snaps toward us but halts just as quickly when I hold up a hand. My eyes never leave Sawyer. “I’ll allow the Dreg a chance to apologize.”
Sawyer glares at me. No trace of appreciation.
I count to three before raising my brows.
“Sorry,” he grinds out. So reluctant and bitter, it sags my lips. After all the times he’s perplexed me with his lies… He can’t bother to fake an apology.
Not brave.
Stupid.
A sigh rushes out of me as I lower my hand. Aiden approaches with the baton and waits only long enough for me to rise and back away from Sawyer’s reach. He dips the baton into the water and lights it up.
Sawyer’s eyes pop as his limbs straighten with tension, his body jolting with shock that reverberates every nerve. Far more agonizing than the concentrated shock of a whip.
He gasps as Aiden pulls the baton away, but he’s only given a moment’s reprieve before Aiden torments his body with another round of skull-rattling electricity. He repeats this twice more. Sawyer’s body slips further after each round until his head dips beneath the water.
I hold up a hand to signal its end.
Wet gasps echo off the walls as Sawyer scrambles to sit up. He slams his hands on the side of the tub and squeezes tight. As if that could be enough to fend off the electric current.
“Would you like to try that again, Mr. Hansley?”
His wild eyes find mine, and I watch as his brain comes back on line.
A moment of inverted déjà vu passes—-a belt around my neck, my body writhing, panicking at the lack of oxygen.
A sort of static cupping my brain. So much static, it took at least ten seconds to remember what Sawyer wanted. For me to beg for his cock.
All I want him to say is sorry.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he gasps. He tries to collect himself but sputters a breath. “I’m s-sorry, Your Grace. Please. Forgive me.”
I can’t help myself. I smile—tight, my lips unused.
It’s gone as quickly as it came.
Aiden backs away as I step within Sawyer’s reach and perch myself back on the stool. My lips twitch as I push Sawyer’s hair back. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
“It’s all right, pet,” I whisper. Sawyer tenses beneath my touch.
His jaw clenches, but he’s smart enough not to pull away.
Again, I’m transported back to that dirty house and the words he said before fucking me for the first time.
“You were overconfident… People do silly things when they’re overconfident. ”
He points his fiery eyes into mine like he remembers too.
Good.
He should be thankful I haven’t forgotten the mercy he showed.
My hand caresses down his face until I’m lightly gripping his jaw. “Stand up.”
For a moment, he just stares. Not long enough for Aiden to move but long enough to communicate his hatred. He must’ve witnessed this same look from me a hundred times. And he loved it.
I understand him now. This part of him, at least.
His knees bend as he drags his heels along the bottom of the tub. His eyes never leave mine as he stands and turns so his genitalia are in my face.
Charming.
“Aiden.” I turn toward my friend. There’s no gasp, but the air feels noticeably thin as Aiden starts my way. I hold out my hand. “Could I?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Water sloshes as Sawyer shifts. Aiden hands over the baton, but when I look up, Sawyer watches the wall. The trace of a smirk has disappeared so thoroughly, I can’t say it was ever there to begin with.
“Thank you, friend.”
I tap my index finger to the stick’s teeth—sharp—then gently prod Sawyer’s penis. He stiffens. Backs up an inch. More water sloshes. But his mouth stays shut, and he doesn’t attempt to escape.
An admirable amount of self-control.
The side of my lip curves as I shift the baton beneath his balls and gently lift, massaging the tight bundles, blue and wrinkled and noticeably hairy. For the briefest moment, my amusement slips, but it’s ridiculous. Thorne is not groomed. I am not groomed.
This is natural.
On him, it looks wrong.
My head tilts as I survey his penis and push the ridiculous thought from my mind. I have to hand it to him, for as cold and turned off as he must be, he still has good length. Half a foot at least.
“Very good.” Pulling the baton back, I nod as if satisfied. As if that served some other purpose than reminding myself how vulnerable Sawyer is. Reminding him. “Aiden, you may go.” I lean the baton against the stool and bend to drain the tub.
For a moment, the only sound is the drain chugging water, but one pointed look from me, and Aiden’s boots retreating add to the mix.
When Sawyer and I are left alone, the tension seems to loosen. The air feels breathable. The candles no longer feel out of place. Every flicker is a subtle mockery of intimacy we don’t have—that we’ve never had, but that each of us seems to enjoy nonetheless.
If lit by him, Sawyer would call it playful.
I never knew I was capable of such a thing.
Once the tub has drained, I turn the water on and go about rinsing Sawyer’s filth while he shivers and stares wantingly at the baton. He doesn't try to hide it, not in Aiden’s absence.
I pull my hair off my shoulders before rinsing the cloth and applying more soap. “Would you like to hold it, pet?”
He openly glares at me as I stand, and when I graze the cloth over his pec, he cinches my wrist. I lift my eyes to his without the slightest climb of my heart rate.
“If you’re going to demean me, you should do it while your pitbull is in the room.”
I tip my head to the side while a slight curve plays at my lips.
I’m not one to smile this much.
“Demean you? Sweetie pie.” I purse my lips as I drag the moniker out. “Honey caaakes. Come on. You of all people should appreciate endearment… Don’t you think, pet?”
My teeth unveil as my smile widens. A rush of heat spreads across my flesh so intense, Sawyer is in danger of being burned. Still, he doesn’t let go. He stares with all the rage of the powerless, and every moment our eyes connect, the more power I seem to take.
Then he spits in my face.
My eyes close as saliva coats my cheek. Every muscle in my body tenses as thousands of microscopic insects attack all at once.
Imaginary. It’s imaginary.
Sawyer takes both my wrists in one palm and pins them against his chest while he digs his thumb into my lips to keep them pinched shut. As if I’d scream. As if I’d need to scream for my big, scary, male protector to come to my rescue.
If he knew what I was capable of, he’d crumble at my feet.
He puts his mouth to my ear. “Pet names are fine for lovers or friends. You and I are nothing but victim and victor.” His grip on my wrist tightens until my bones protest. “Enjoy your turn, you evil fucking cunt.”
The way he speaks… Calm. Certain.
Foolishly naive.
And yet, my lungs lock.
An impossibly long second passes before he pulls away. Impossibly long, but not long enough to recover.
Sawyer releases my wrists to take my head in his hands. Without missing a beat, he licks his saliva off my cheek—slow, steady, thorough, his dehydrated tongue rough as sandpaper.
When he pulls back, I’m stunned silent.
His shoulders rise as he shakes his head in a pitiless, disgusted, maybe even bitterly amused way. “Forgive me… Your Grace.”
A second passes.
Another.
We just stare at each other while we both wait for me to make my move. I can feel him ready to flinch for the baton, but I think if he planned to use it, he would have already. He’s only poised to knock it from my reach.
So what then do you do when your captive has made a fuss? One you must control, but never break.
A question I’ve spent hours debating, yet am no closer to the answer.
“I forgive you.” I nod. Stepping from his reach, I wipe the back of my hand across the drying saliva.
Sawyer stares at me with disarming rebellion that screams “problem,” but in the end, it’s a single question that makes up my mind.
What would Sawyer do?
I turn and leave the bathroom where Aiden patiently waits outside. Clearing my throat of any hesitation, I stand up straight and lift my chin. “I’m afraid our guest is not yet ready to cooperate. Please help him cure his willfulness before bringing him down for dinner. I’m sure he’s hungry.”
Aiden is quick to nod. Eager. I could warn him that Sawyer has the baton, but it wouldn’t be necessary.
I wait all of two minutes for Sawyer’s screams to begin before I head to the kitchen. By the time I’ve finished scrubbing myself clean, my skin is raw and inflamed and the oven beeps to signal it’s ready for the vegetables Sawyer will never eat.
Of course, hunger has a way of breaking old habits. As with all forms of pain, it is as simple as it is effective. Usually.
Always.
My nail taps the countertop three times, each jab sharper than the last, puncturing the silence. My chin rises and falls with a slow nod.
“Always.”