Chapter Two #2
“Har har,” Landon shot back. But they seemed to realize that Hilker wasn’t going to try to stop them from talking in the same moment that Isaiah did. Their voice turned a little softer, almost sappy, if sappy was something Landon could be. “I’m uh, I’m happy you’re not hurting.”
Isaiah groaned. “Don’t speak too soon, you’ll jinx it.”
“I just have another blood draw and a few scans today,” Hilker butted in, pulling the phlebotomy cart out from under the counter. “I need to ensure the effects of the unholy gold truly produce the necessary results on a molecular level.”
As he spoke, Isaiah settled back, his wrists coming to rest beside the manacles they’d been using every session up to this point. He glanced at Hilker and tucked his arms a little closer. “If it’s really not going to hurt, can we not…”
“I see no need for the bindings when we’re working with this.” Hilker waggled the golden metal and set it on the phlebotomy cart. Within Isaiah’s reach.
Then he turned, like he wasn’t the least bit worried that Isaiah might grab it and hurl it across the room and—and then what?
He couldn’t convince Varsity to open the doors, no matter what he did to Hilker, and if he put their lead scientist out of commission, things would only get worse from there.
At least Hilker he could trust to be consistent: to follow the science without caring one way or another whether it hurt Isaiah.
Which meant he’d been willing to put Isaiah in agony for all of these months…
but which had also led him here, calmly avoiding that same agony when there was a reasonable way around it.
Dr. Anthony Hilker wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty, and if that was the best award Isaiah could grant him, maybe that was enough to keep living through.
Still, Isaiah held his breath as Hilker lined up his tools.
He let the elastic band wrap his arm, let the alcohol touch his skin, didn’t pull away even as the needle descended and—he barely flinched.
That was it? It had always felt far worse while in the throes of the holy silver.
This was barely a pinch. Isaiah watched in stunned silence as his near-black blood filled the little tubes Hilker had arranged, moving one by one down the line.
The following tests were even less painful.
A few of Hilker’s machines buzzed and whirred at an uncomfortable pitch, but nothing ever touched skin.
As Hilker worked though, Isaiah was keenly aware of the way the scientist’s gaze moved across his body, not during the work itself—never during the work—but every moment in between, like without Varsity in control, he was finally allowing himself to own the space.
And part of what he owned seemed to be Isaiah.
At first it sent a shudder down Isaiah’s spine, a knot twisting in his stomach, but the longer he lay there, the more those initial apprehensions unraveled.
Hilker’s hands, always professional and gentle, barely touched him, and as much as Isaiah was certain the man was thinking all manner of untoward things—or would be later—he wasn’t acting on them.
Despite the glaring fact that he could have.
He could have told Isaiah to slip his wrists into the manacles in the beginning, and that would have been that.
It was a low bar, Isaiah knew, but it took some of the fear away, and without the fear, he could almost imagine that each little careful brush of Hilker’s fingertips were someone else’s.
Isaiah had kicked the habit of envisioning every hookup and fantasy’s hands as Justin’s, but that left no one in place of his eternal crush.
He’d tried to think of celebrities, of hot strangers on the street, of people he’d make up in his head, even of Clementine during a moment of weakness when it felt like if he couldn’t have Justin, he could at least have the man Justin had chosen in place of him. But nothing had felt good.
His first month here, he’d wondered, terribly, if he might someday replace the hole in his heart with Landon.
But Landon was a friend. Landon was an amazing, spectacular, wonderful friend, who Isaiah would die for, someday that wasn’t this one, but try as Isaiah might, his mental image of them couldn’t make his body ache for their tongue in his mouth or their fingers thrusting tenderly against his sweet spot while they whispered how naughty he was.
Isaiah chewed on his lip, staring at the ceiling as Hilker withdrew his final machine, one metal arm at a time, and rolled it back into its place. He almost missed the narrow-eyed look the scientist gave him after, but he was sure there was something in it—not desire; perhaps distaste? Huh…
Hilker fiddled with the unholy gold before releasing a breath. His posture became fully professional once more. “I’m afraid I also need a sample of cells.”
“So, this will hurt after all,” Isaiah replied, but instead of the rush of fear he expected, he felt more like an insolent child, pouty and dramatic. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Only minimally.” Hilker retrieved the samplers from his drawer, and this time Isaiah was conscious enough to truly examine them: long, wide needles with sloped tips. They looked more intimidating than they actually were. He hoped.