Chapter 21 Thane
THANE
The drugs aren’t fucking working.
I’ve tried everything in my stash.
Nothing can get the taste of her off my tongue.
The feel of her hot, slick cunt squeezing around my fingers.
Her desperate, frantic pleading when she begged me not to stop.
Her voice follows me in my dreams. Instead of the usual nightmares that leave me shaking and soaked with sweat, I wake up humping the fucking mattress like I’m some goddamned prepubescent degenerate.
Ever since I ran out of that room, leaving her—fuck. Just leaving her there. Fucking Fate, I’m such a piece of shit. It feels like I’m watching my life through someone else’s eyes, going through the motions. Not even Roth could fully bury my demon.
Truthfully, I’ve been grateful for it. Even if the fucker got me into this mess, letting my demon slip means I can hide from the consequences of this monumental fuck up.
Luther hasn’t said a single word to anyone.
Killian won’t stop running his fucking mouth.
Roth is acting like nothing happened, but I know that he’s considering the dozens of scenarios where the consequences of my actions fall on me, and therefore all of us: if she tells Mercer or Church and I lose the internship.
If she tries to blackmail me in exchange for her silence.
If she extorts me for social capital. The fact that she hasn’t said anything, still, is shredding the tenuous thread of self-control that’s barely holding me together. Why hasn’t she said anything yet?
Fucking Christ.
“I need stronger drugs.” My statement interrupts whatever conversation Roth is having with the terrified tailor who’s fitting him for his suit, Luther just sighs from where he’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch from me, and Killian cackles from behind a display of pocket squares.
“Something on your mind, lover boy?”
“I hate you.”
“Bold move, insulting your supplier.”
“Then supply me something that fucking works.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get right on that. Just tell me again how tight her cunt was?”
“I really fucking hate you.” The asshole just blows me a kiss and goes back to holding up pocket squares that look exactly the same to me.
“That should be all, Mr. Kovacs,” the trembling tailor stutters out. I can’t help but smirk. Roth has that effect on people.
“Thane.” His deep voice drags my attention from the man hurriedly getting out of Roth’s way as he steps down from the riser. “Your turn.”
“Roth—” I begin to protest, but his stern glare shuts me up, and my cheeks flush with shame as I get up and walk to the riser he just vacated.
The tailor takes a deep breath to fortify himself before slipping on the custom suit jacket Roth ordered for me.
The brush of cool, supple silk against my skin is yet another reminder of my own failings. Or rather, my family’s.
No one other than the four of us—and my father—know that the fortunes of House Aquae are long gone, squandered in the span of two generations.
And it has to stay that way. Even the appearance of weakness would be exploited until there’s nothing left but the carcass of our family’s legacy.
If my father knew that I’d told the other Heirs the truth, I doubt even my status as his one and only living heir, or the power in my blood would spare me from his retribution.
Because the only thing he’s more desperate for than siring another legitimate heir, is reclaiming our family’s glory.
The longer I go without another hit of my blunt as the tailor continues fitting me for the suit, the deeper those feelings of disquiet sink in my mind, until I’m on the verge of drowning again.
“Are you almost done?” I manage to grit out at the tailor as he adjusts the hemline of my slacks.
“Yes, Mr. Rorvik, you can step down,” he responds with a shaky, perfunctory nod.
I nearly crash into the sofa, scrambling to find my blunt before Luther hands it to me, standing and walking to the vacant riser for his own fitting.
As the drugs begin to seep into my mind, Killian sits next to me and starts yapping about plants and shit that he’ll test in the next batch.
The sudden, incessant vibrating of my phone as a barrage of messages and missed calls go unanswered interrupts him.
He snatches it from the plush footstool where I tossed it earlier, but I still manage to see what my father says.
Soren Rorvik
Thane, pick up.
Pick up.
Call me back. We have important matters to discuss.
“God damn, what does he want now?” he sneers. I groan and slink further down into the sofa, pulling my hoodie over my eyes.
“Fuck if I know, fuck if I care.”
“Want me to answer?”
“It’s not worth it,” I murmur.
“You never let me have any fun,” he pouts like a damn toddler, making my lips twitch reluctantly.
By the time Luther joins us back on the sofa looking about as pleased as I am to still be here, my phone is finally silent.
None of us want to go to the fucking Masquerade, but our families haven’t given us any choice.
Roth will be forced to kiss the rings of his worst abusers while Calanthe hangs off his arm.
My stomach churns at the thought of watching her fawn over him, knowing how it makes his skin crawl to be touched, let alone by some vainglorious succubus whose parents sold her like chattel to the highest bidder.
For Killian, it’s one of the rare occasions his mother is permitted to make a public appearance—in support of her husband, the great Councilman Preston Hastings, of course.
Not to see her only son. Not to escape the prison of her husband’s making, surrounded by the victims of his countless infidelities and betrayals.
But Claire’s too virtuous—she’d never betray Fate and abandon her soulmate, even if it kills her.
It probably will. If Preston ever found out how many times Killian’s begged her to leave him, offered to take her place as Preston’s leverage, Preston would never let her see the light of day again.
She’s too good to condemn her son to the same fate.
She’s the best of all our families, and they’ll bury her for it.
But Roth and Killian know how to play these games, as much as it kills them.
Luther doesn’t bother playing these games at all. He doesn’t ingratiate himself like his brother Cyrus, the prodigal son and Heir of House Aeris. He stands tall, no matter how hard they try to tear him down for not falling in line, no matter how they twist the knife into those old wounds.
That’s why they hate him so much, I think.
Despite their constant cruelties, he endures.
He’d endure anything to keep them from erasing Quentin’s memory, from pretending they didn’t sacrifice two sons for the sake of one. That’s what a sentinel does—watches over precious, fragile things like the truth.
Luther is the best of House Aeris, and they’ll punish him for it every time.
When Roth finally signals it’s time to go, Luther breaks his silence.
“I need a fucking drink.”
“You’re gonna need more than one, you goddamn giant.” Killian taunts as we follow Roth out of the shop, ignoring Luther’s irritated growl.
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Oh no, he’s hangry too. Roth—better feed him quick, we can’t have him tearing up the town if he eats after midnight.”
“That’s Gremlins, you asshole.”
“Wyckd?” I venture, interrupting their bickering.
Roth nods. “That should suffice for my father’s stipulations on public appearances, at least temporarily.”
Killian snorts from behind us. “He’s still fucking on about that?”
“Unfortunately. He’s quite convinced of his own ingenuity,” Roth answers, lips curling into a sneer. “Mother’s delighted at the prospect of having a powerful succubus at her disposal, while the Beauchamps ascend the hierarchy in a single, bloodless transaction.”
“Cowards,” Luther mutters under his breath.
“Morons, more like,” I add.
“My bet’s on Greed to make the first challenge. Lyra doesn’t give a shit who she has to fuck or fuck over so long as she comes out on top,” Killian groans. “Fuck, she’s been relentless lately.”
Luther huffs. “The fuck did you expect, goading her like that?”
“Like what?” I turn with a frown.
“Yeah, Killer, like what?” Roth echoes with a cocked eyebrow.
“Okay first, fuck all of you. Especially you,” he glares at Luther, who only smirks, “you fucking hypocrite. And second, I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Jesus dude, what the fuck did you do this time?” I sigh.
“Okay so you know how I walked Nyx back from the Training Center after Luther left her naked and drip—fuck, you dick,” he cuts off suddenly when Luther dead arms him, drawing a rare half-grin from Roth, while Luther barely grunts as Killian returns fire.
“As I was saying, the next night I went back to her dorm to pick up where we left off—”
“—after she kicked you out for being a fucking peeping Tom—”
“Get bent, Goliath,” Killian jabs back without missing a beat, “when Lyra and her cling-ons practically mauled me in front of her door. And I may have mentioned something about keeping our clothes on ‘unlike last time’…”
“You have no one to blame but yourself, mutt,” Roth admonishes as we enter on the club.
The bouncer opens the door and the crowd parts as we sweep past the writhing dance floor to our customary booth.
The current occupants scramble like roaches when they see us approaching, and it takes only moments for our regular drinks to be delivered.
It takes even less time for the vultures to descend upon us, eager to see us and be seen with us.