29
“The Regiment has humble beginnings. Its founders were committed to the promotion of populism—they yearned to appeal to the common man amidst an administration of political elites. Progress, they saw, was leaving people behind. It took time, but these founding members gained enough support to form a political party with the aim of pushing out upper-class politicians. The main—and most crucial—factor in their ascension? The support of the church.”
With Slade dressed in Regiment gray, it’s almost too easy to get from the river to the heart of the Reaches.
A sailor’s uniform doesn’t bear the same bloodred clerical collar as a chaplain’s, but Slade procured one that Emeric gave him, fastening it around his neck in the moments before we leaped onto the dock.
And just like that, Felix Astor lives again.
I’m still in my regular clothes, but Slade is convinced it won’t be an issue.
“The Regiment won’t pay attention to a hired sinner. Just stay close to me.”
I hate that this is an accepted, commonplace thing.
As if sinners aren’t people in their own right, but pets.
I stare straight ahead as we follow the narrow cobblestone road away from the docks, my chest tightening each time a vehicle trundles past. One of them slows as it approaches, making Slade’s nostrils flare.
“Keep moving,” he mutters from the side of his mouth. “Don’t look—just keep moving.”
I don’t need his instructions, but I follow them anyway, holding my breath until the car is out of sight.
This part of the Reaches is all very industrial.
Sleek boats tilt atop the thrashing water, and the shore is lined with warehouses and metal shipping containers.
By now the sun should’ve risen fully, but the gray sky makes everything feel dark despite the flickering streetlights.
Their fluorescent glow is a harsh juxtaposition to the shadows cast by the tall, uniform buildings around us.
“You want to be inconspicuous?” I hiss at Slade under my breath. “Stop skirting the lights. You might as well be holding a sign that says you’re a criminal.”
He shoots me a dark look but seems to realize I have a point.
It starts to pour rain as we reach the top of the hill, conveniently helping to disguise the fact that I’m soaking wet.
When the cobblestone road opens into a paved street, Slade takes hold of my elbow, using it to guide me in close to his side.
It feels less like concern for my safety and more like a display of ownership.
If I weren’t pretending to be his hired sinner, I’d be hard pressed not to shove my knife into his ribs.
We aren’t the only ones around, even at this hour.
Shops are beginning to open, and vehicles pass us more frequently.
I’ve never seen so many Regiment uniforms at once in my life.
Some are agents patrolling the streets, but others bear the insignia of a scholar on their jackets.
Then, finally, there are a few chaplains, who don’t wear their symbol but are identifiable by the clerical collars around their necks.
My heart is lodged somewhere in my throat.
I feel like I’m waiting for them to recognize me, to recognize Slade, and raise the alarm.
I don’t know what Gabriel would do if that happened, but I don’t want to find out.
“I thought it would be…prettier,” I say in a low voice, tossing a furtive glance over my shoulder. The clean lines of the well-maintained buildings are an obvious indicator of wealth, but something about the Reaches is undeniably cold.
Slade gives a noncommittal jerk of his head. “I’ve heard the fourth quarter is rather lovely. That’s where the Citadel stands. We’ve just been through the scholars’ quarter, which is quite plain.”
The farther we get from the river, the tighter the web of buildings becomes, and the more clinical they look.
The streetlights start appearing at wider intervals, then disappear altogether, giving way to featureless Regiment buildings.
They’re still built of the same dark brick, retaining that impression of timelessness, but nothing distinguishes one from another.
Slade’s grip on my elbow tightens as he pulls me to the left, passing under a cast-iron archway.
The roads are lined with nondescript townhouses, a set of stone steps leading up to each door.
“Is this the chaplains’ quarter?” I ask.
“Yes. Unless I’ve gotten us terribly lost, Emeric’s place should be up ahead.”
I scan the long line of housing. Lights emanate from within a few of them, but most appear unoccupied. “If every chaplain has a place, wouldn’t Felix Astor have one too?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to stay there in the event someone who knows him comes knocking.” Slade comes to a halt, squinting at the brass numeral on the nearest building. “Here we are.”
He indicates that I should go first. I do, moving aside at the top of the steps as he procures the small key Emeric gave him. The moment the door shuts behind us, sealing us in the sparsely furnished house, I’m all too aware of how alone we are.
“I wonder how long it will take my brother to realize we’ve arrived,” Slade muses as he strips off the sailor’s jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a hook by the door. “Or do you still need to place a phone call, little liar?”
I’d been braced for him to circle back to this. “I won’t be calling Gabriel again.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I retort. “It’s the truth.”
Slade sinks onto the nearby sofa and crosses his legs, the movements languid. “I think you do care, actually. Because if we’re going to do this successfully, then having me on your side is very important. You need to show me that you can still be trusted. That you can take instruction.”
I think I know what he wants. I don’t want to give it to him, yet at the same time I desperately do.
When it comes to Slade, my need to fight is constantly at war with my desire to obey.
I recall the weight of his body on mine.
His breath at my ear. The revelation that the Trench—his territory—is a carefully cultivated feeding ground.
The thought no longer horrifies me. Soon, if this goes well, I’ll have to feed the same way he does. A predator instead of a helpless prey animal. Slade’s equal, instead of a fragile girl too easily overpowered.
I wonder if I’ll let him overpower me regardless even then.
You need to be in control, I’d told him. You never are, though, when it comes to me. Not unless I allow it.
The last time I felt this way, it had been different. More like a game. And I don’t want it to feel like a game—I want the thrill of real fear. The sensation that I’m treading uneven ground. I want the anticipation of pleasure or pain, never knowing which will follow.
“You want to see that I can take instruction?” I ask, my voice pitched low. “Instruct me, then. You said you were going to make me pay, so do it.”
He knows I’m goading him, but I can tell by the narrowing of his eyes that he likes it. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” And it is. It really fucking is.
Slade rises from the sofa, his expression shifting into something detached, hungry.
He’s already locked in. It might seem as though he’s in control of the situation, but we both know the truth.
He can only take what I’m willing to give.
And despite who he is—despite everything I know about him—I think he’ll respect that.
In this, the rules are different.
“Kneel,” he snaps, and I do, my body obeying before my brain even processes the words. Slade prowls closer, bending at the waist to drag his thumb along the curve of my jaw. “Little liar. You want to suffer, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” I force out. “Please.”
Without another word, without any warning, he smacks me across the face. Hard, but not too hard, taking care to avoid my ear. My left cheek burns as heat surges within me. I can tell at once that he’s done this before.
Slade laughs softly. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t give me time to answer, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head back to bare my throat. With a flick of his wrist he suddenly has a knife in hand, pressing the blade to the sensitive spot beneath my chin. I don’t even see him retrieve it before I feel its cold metal bite.
“Are you sorry yet?” he murmurs, sliding the blade so that the point rests in the dip of my clavicle. “Do you regret lying to me?”
My gaze is trained on the ceiling. I try to stay motionless, feeling the knife shift as I breathe in and out. I can’t tell whether he’s drawn blood, and I don’t care. I’m terribly, intolerably excited. “Yes,” I pant. “Yes, I regret it.”
“Good girl. I can’t have you passing secrets along to my brother, can I?
” Slade clicks his tongue. “You need to learn to keep that fucking mouth shut. So from now on, if you want to say something, you ask permission. Raise your hand and I’ll let you know if I want to hear it.
” He withdraws the blade, taking me by the chin and guiding it down so that I’m forced to look him in the eye again. “Nod if you understand.”
I nod, releasing a shuddering breath. It’s a shudder not of fear, but of anticipation. My muscles relax with the disappearance of the knife, but my core remains tense, coiled in need.
“This continues until I say otherwise. It doesn’t stop when Emeric and Ceri show up.”
That gives me pause, but I nod again. Because I did betray him, and I do need him to work with me, and I know this is what he requires in order to feel like he has some sort of control over the situation.
Not to mention it excites the hell out of me—my body is already reacting, and he’s scarcely touched me.