Chapter 19 Thea
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THEA
I’m going to throw up trying to sway my hips like I’m sexy. My soul burns, laid bare and raw, humiliated under his stare—but Slade doesn’t look away. Wait—
Wait, now he’s prowling toward me. One second I’m on stage, knees wobbly despite my best effort to remain upright and pretend to have an ounce of seduction, the next I’m in the air and—
“Ow!” I yell as Slade grasps my legs together and tosses me over his shoulder.
“Slade!” The men’s shouts drown me out. I fist his jacket for balance, but my hands slip, and the world tilts.
Each twist drives the air from my lungs, my stomach grinding into his shoulder with every breathless struggle.
Glancing toward the stage, Juliette has stopped moving. Rage simmers in her glare as security escorts her offstage, but what holds my attention are the red numbers flashing on the screen—vivid, glaring, and unmistakably not in my favor.
The eruption in the main club area fades as Slade moves while blood rushes to my head.
Hair covers my face like a thick curtain, and I huff it out of my face as the floor beneath me shifts from marble to dark, polished wood.
My thoughts spin, everything from superficial to true concern, and all I can do is stare at the stupid floor.
My butt’s exposed.
What is he doing?
What’s going on?
There’s a click of a door before it slams shut, and I’m lowered down in front of him. Instinctively, I step back, smacking my mussed curls out of my face.
Congressman DuPont stands with his back to the door, his chest heaving in short, choppy pulls. His suit’s wrinkled, his tie twisted and clinging to his shoulder—the same spot where I was pinned. I stare at him, watching his downcast gaze roam over the edge of the rug on the floor.
Hands balled into fists at his sides, he makes to step forward but pulls back.
Finally, he looks up at me, and his shoulders twitch.
Slowly, he drags a hand through his hair and then pushes up the frames slanted on his face.
We lock eyes, his head tilting as if he’s trying to study me.
I shiver when the muscles in his jaw twitch.
He steps forward, and I lean back, self-conscious. When he takes another step, I retreat. We repeat the dance until I run into the back wall. Inches from me, he breathes ragged, like he’s unsettled about something.
“Wh-what is going on?”
There’s something in his eyes I can’t name, something that makes the air in the room press thick and curl tight around my throat.
His gaze is intense, so much so that I glance away, spotting a smear of red lipstick across the collar of his suit.
He inches closer, as if he’s giving me time to move. I don’t.
The space between us narrows until his face is millimeters from mine. Whatever swells between us is stealing the breathable space. I suck in a breath.
The warring in his expression looks like he just crossed a self-imposed line, and now he doesn’t know how to go back. He doesn’t touch me yet stands close enough to evaporate the needed oxygen.
“Slade—”
He dips his head, stopping short of the space at the hollow of my neck, and exhales a hoarse breath along the curve of my collarbone. My body heats, but I shiver. My head tilts to the side as I swear he pulls in a long breath, like he’s trying to smell me.
Goose bumps cascade down my arms, my thoughts scatter, and my spine melts; I nearly collapse. He breathes me in like he’s starved, and my body answers by turning to jelly. His mouth brushes close to my ear, skirting the shell where my hair clings tucked behind it.
I shudder, and then—
“What’s happening to me?” he whispers.
Everything stops. The room stops swirling, my stomach quits fluttering, and my eyes stop drifting closed.
They pop open, and I scan the room, looking for the voice, only to realize it’s his.
It’s low, smooth, and—crap, it’s velvety.
It’s got a rough edge to it, like it hurt his throat to be used, but it makes my skin prickle in the worst and most confusing way.
My gasp breaks the silence after his question. Oh, my … I wasn’t expecting him to speak—not now, not ever. So when he does, there’s a shift in the room.
I pull back, side-eyeing him. “Did you just … Was that … ?”
Great. Now I’m the one without words. I open my mouth to ask him again, but there’s a shout outside the room. Slade snaps his head up, holding my gaze for a second, maybe two, before the door bursts open.
He spins, angling himself between the open door and me. His right hand extends out. Is he blocking me?
A towering man with long jet-black hair stands in the doorframe, a smirk spreading across his lips. Dimples appear, offering a contradiction to the tattoos swallowing his neck and the gun in his hand. “If you wanted alone time, Slade, all you had to do was say something.”
He snickers but snaps his mouth shut when Slade grates, “Get out.”
The man’s eyes widen, then dart to me and narrow. “Yeah, well Knox texted. Security is on their way. Get ready.”
Slade hisses out a sigh.
“I gotta go, but uh, I guess I’ll talk to you later.” The man winks before darting out of the frame.
I glance at Slade and his face changes color. Deep red pricks the top of his cheeks. Is he embarrassed?
“I—” Slade starts.
“Slade!” A security guard runs around the corner, hair buzzed short, eyes dark, and a silver hoop threaded through one eyebrow. “We’ve been instructed to bring you to Graves’s office. My back up is coming. What do you want me to do?”
Is this guy asking him? Slade?
Slade looks at me and gestures toward the security guard.
“You want me to go with him?” I ask.
He nods, then turns to the door. “My limo.”
His voice scrapes low across my skin. Gravel and smooth in the same breath. Heck.
Knox’s chin jerks back, and his brows shoot up. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take her.”
Slade places a hand on the bare dip in my back, his fingertips light and reverent almost. Gently he pushes me forward, toward Knox who holds out his hand.
“Let’s go.” He pulls me, and I chance a peek behind me to see Slade tuck his hands into his pockets and bow his head.
Then I’m dragged down a hallway, then another, and another.
It’s all a blur until a steel door. Knox swipes his thumb over a pin pad, and it opens to the underground garage I’ve been in before.
Edmond stands beside a limo, his hand on the rear handle. He smiles at me and opens the door. The sweetness in his gesture, the genuine curve of his mouth—I want to cry. Picking up my pace, I rush to the limo, collapsing into the seat. The leather is cool against my flushed skin and damp back.
Edmond pokes his head in the door. “Seat belt, Miss.” Then, with a heavy thunk, the door shuts, sealing out the noise. I drag in an even breath but can’t seem to push it back out. Instead, my throat tightens, and I let out a soft, quivering wince that twists into a fractured sob.
Shame smothers my relief at being off the stage. His nose in the sensitive dip below my ear, the pained sigh into my skin, the heat in his gaze—what was that?
He’s still complicit in this, but I should be grateful I’ve been relieved of that awful Culling. Though, was his removing me a graceful act, or was it control? What about the others? I can’t leave them. There’s too much that needs to be exposed.
Survive, Thea.
Yes. Yes, I want to survive, and I was definitely losing, but I’m not the one worth saving. What about Mercy, or Beth—she wants to be a doctor. Was in med school, with a clear direction for her future. I don’t have one of those.
I reach for the door handle. I could go back.
Edmond sure isn’t going to chase me down, and this Knox guy, currently on his way back to the elevator, probably has bigger, more important people he answers to.
Though would they view me as complicit in Slade’s charade?
I lost to Juliette, so I will be put in the pool with the others. If I’m Culled, I’ll be shipped away.
My fingers tremble against the handle before I let go. Despite the imprint of adrenaline thrumming through me, I know I can’t go back, and it’s a toss-up between self-preservation and the hope I could do more for the girls on this side of things. If I’m out, I can get help.
Exposure.
They need to be exposed.
The leather seat lets out a low creak as I sink back into it. I watch through the window as Knox turns to exchange words with Edmond. With an exhale, I look away, resting my head and letting my limbs yield to the heaviness weighing them down.
In the dark, padded safety of the limo, I let myself breathe like I’m coming up for air.
I ignore the unnerving quiet, and instead, I relish it.
That is until I’m startled by the door opening again, as Slade hurries in, composure stretched thin across his flexing expression.
He slides into me, and I scoot over while Edmond climbs in after him.
The driver up front glances in the rearview, and Edmond gives him the thumbs-up.
The door shuts, and the limo squeals out of the parking garage.
The feeling of escape is familiar, riveting even, but this time I’m more confused than ever.
“Can someone please explain what’s going on?”
Edmond pipes in. “Congressman DuPont has secured your release.”
I look between the two men, Slade adjusting his glasses and Edmond his bow tie.
“Release? You make it sound like I was in prison. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for”—I swallow—“everything, but what about the others. Who’s going to go to the Culling?
And, actually where do they go? Please, we can’t leave them. ”
A tear strips itself from my lashes, and I wrinkle my nose fighting the many more that want to follow in its place.