Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Daphne
The Son restraining me let go.
I kept my eyes locked on the TV, refusing to look through the blood-smeared glass again.
Sinclair was dead. I knew that.
“Kenward!” a raspy voice yelled through the TV speakers, sounding like a man who smoked two packs a day. “To your cell now!”
The camera angle shifted, zooming in on the man gripping the shank before moving higher.
Oh my God.
That wasn’t another prisoner.
It was the freaking guard.
The camera followed him as he headed straight for my dad, and I threw myself toward the TV like there was some way I could reach through the screen and drag my father out of there.
Dad turned, suspicion creasing his forehead. “This early? We haven’t had rec yet.”
“Early bedtime.” The guard shrugged. “Boss’s orders.”
Dad hesitated but stepped toward the cell anyway. It wasn’t like he had much choice.
“No!” I slammed my palms against the TV. “Don’t do it, Dad! Don’t go in there!”
The masked man behind me chuckled. “Don’t waste your breath.”
I wanted to turn around and punch him. Kick him in the balls. Tear off his mask and shove both thumbs into his eye sockets and keep pushing until he was the one screaming for help.
Tears blurred Dad into a watery shape as he entered his cell.
The guard shoved Dad farther inside and struck. Dad doubled over, clutching his side.
Not a punch.
The bastard had stabbed him.
“Help!” he called out, so much like Sinclair had only moments ago. “Someone, help!”
Blood soaked through his shirt. He stumbled into the metal sink and grabbed for the cot, but his hand missed and he crashed to the floor.
My knees nearly gave out with him. I forgot about the Son in the room. About the ones watching me. About Brooks.
That wasn’t just Conrad Kenward, the man guilty of treason, on the screen.
That was my father.
My dad raised a trembling hand.
Not to fight.
To beg.
“Help!” he screamed again, the word breaking apart in his throat.
No one came.
The guard struck again, dragging the blade across my dad’s neck.
My dad slapped a hand over the wound, but blood squeezed between his fingers faster than he could stop it.
“No!” I pounded my fists against the screen. “Stop, Brooks! Make him fucking stop!”
The guard kept stabbing.
Brooks didn’t stop him.
The screen went black. I collapsed onto the concrete, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.
I cried for my dad.
For Sinclair.
For the wife and kids he’d never go home to.
The Sons had wanted my dad dead for years, and I’d just watched them get that.
Sure, my father had plotted to kill the president, and I wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he was innocent. But he’d been serving his sentence for it. This wasn’t justice.
He wasn’t supposed to die on the floor of a prison cell because I refused to play their sick fucking game.
“We told you to make a decision, and you didn’t,” the Son said. “Consider this your first lesson as a Fawn. We don’t make empty threats. When a Son gives you an order, you obey it.” He nodded toward the TV. “Remember this.”
He left without looking back, like my sobbing meant nothing to him.
The TV turned back on.
Dad was alive again, sitting at the same table and eating that same muffin like I hadn’t just watched him die. He went down the hallway. The video kept playing his murder on a sickening loop.
His screams echoed through the concrete box until I couldn’t escape them. My gaze landed on the gun.
If you hit your breaking point …
I grabbed the note, ripped it into tiny pieces, and threw them across the floor.
“Turn it off!” I shrieked.
The hidden door opened, and Brooks appeared without his mask, still holding the bat like he hadn’t already done enough damage with it.
Sinclair’s blood dripped from the end, matching the dark specks across his face.
“You want us to turn it off?” he asked, tapping the bat against his gloved palm.
“Yes!” I screamed.
He lifted two fingers.
The TV went silent.
He didn’t give me time to appreciate the quiet before he swung the bat into the glass. It exploded, shards scattering across the concrete. He stepped through the broken opening and made his way to Sinclair without an ounce of urgency.
He pulled off both gloves, shoved them into his pocket, and pressed two fingers to Sinclair’s neck, waiting a few seconds before looking back at me.
“Nothing.” He stood, the bloody bat hanging loosely at his side. “My favorite kind of pulse on an enemy.”
“He wasn’t your enemy,” I said around a snarl.
The gun was only a few feet away.
One bullet.
One bullet was all I needed to kill his ass.
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Anyone who touches you is my enemy because you’re mine.”
He gave Sinclair’s cheek a pat before grabbing his ankle and dragging him across the concrete, then through the shattered opening between our cells. A thick trail of blood followed.
Brooks dropped Sinclair’s ankle and came for me.
Since most of our arguments happened with my back against the wall, we repeated history as he backed me up into the concrete wall.
I threw my arms out to create some distance between us, but he brushed them aside like they were nothing but annoying gnats and grabbed my hand.
“What are you—”
He pried my fingers apart and wrapped them around the bloody bat, forcing my palm against the handle until there was no way my fingerprints weren’t all over it.
“There.” Brooks gave me the same patronizing pat on the cheek he’d given Sinclair. “Now your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. I can already see the headline. Mistress Gets Jealous and Murders Married Professor. That should keep you in line.”
Before I could call him bat shit crazy, I doubled over and puked the handful of Doritos I’d eaten yesterday all over his boot.
I stared at the mess before looking at Brooks.
I grinned for the first time in what felt like days.
He caught my chin between two fingers and tipped my face up. “You think that’s funny?”
“If you do vomit-inducing shit, expect to get vomited on.” I flashed him another smile. “So, fuck you.”
A slow, sinister grin cut across his battered face.
He tossed the bloody bat aside, buried a fist in my tangled hair, and dragged me onto my knees like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to do it. “Lick it off.”
“Fuck you.” I dug my nails into his wrist while he shoved my face toward his filthy boot.
“I said, lick it off.”
“And I said, fuck you.”
His fist stayed buried in my hair, holding me inches from the mess while the smell of sour Doritos and vomit made me close to adding another layer to it.
The second his hold loosened, I jerked back and spat on his boot.
“Now lick that up too,” he demanded.
“No.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and glared up at him. “Use that gun and kill me if you have to.”
He went completely unreadable, and for one terrifying second, I wondered if I’d pushed him enough to actually consider it.
“Fine.” He reared back and spat in my hair.
My mouth fell open.
Oh, this motherfucker.
Whatever. I’d add a deep conditioning mask to my post-Initiation recovery plan.
Still wasn’t licking his damn boot.
He yanked my head back and pressed his crotch against my face, the thick heat of his erection pushing against my lips through the rough fabric of his pants.
“Kiss it,” he said. “Kiss it and stroke me.”
I wanted to bite the damn thing off, but kissing a little hard-on through pants was probably the easiest part of this fucking Initiation.
I shot him a murderous glare before pressing the quickest, most resentful peck possible against his crotch.
“There.” I pulled back. “Happy?”
He dug his fingers harder into my aching scalp. “You can do better than that.”
Obviously.
I could also headbutt him in the balls.
Instead, I leaned forward and kissed him again.
He hauled me up by my hair until I stumbled to my feet, then decided he preferred me on my knees and shoved me right back down.
“Kiss it like you fucking worship it, Daphne.”
Gritting my teeth, I held my mouth there longer, putting on the most convincing performance I could manage.
A low groan left him before he pulled me upright.
He slid his hand down my stomach and cupped me between my legs. “As much as I want to choke you with my cock, no other Son is going to witness that.” He glanced toward the tiny camera tucked into the corner before looking back at me. “I can’t wait to get you alone.”
“You’ll never touch me again. You killed my father.”
The menace vanished from his face for half a second before he moved closer. “No, I didn’t. We figured out how to fake the video. But don’t you fucking repeat that in here. Pretend, Princess. Pretend I broke you for the cameras.”
For a second, I forgot how to react.
“You’re lying,” I rasped.
“Do you think I’d lie about that?”
I don’t know.
The frantic hammering of my pulse finally steadied.
My dad is alive.
I wanted to hug him—which was fucked up since he’d just made me kiss his cock through his pants and spat in my hair—but knew I couldn’t.
The cameras were watching, and Brooks had already broken character by telling me the truth.
The Sons wanted me to believe everything in this room was real. That was how they pushed their Fawns to the edge, and Brooks had just handed me one tiny piece of sanity to hold onto.
Sinclair was still dead, yes. That hadn’t magically become okay.
I hated Brooks for what he’d done to him, but killing Sinclair and killing my father belonged in two different places inside me.
Brooks stepped away, and the monster slipped right back into place. “Welcome to my world, my Fawn. This is as sane as it’ll ever be.”
The door opened, and another Son wheeled in a yellow commercial mop bucket.
I looked at the bucket. Then at the bloody floor. Then at Sinclair’s body.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Clean up this bloody mess for me,” Brooks ordered. “You can’t leave until there’s not one speck of blood on this floor.”
Both men disappeared through the door, leaving me alone with a mop, a bucket, and a dead professor.
You’re strong, Daphne.
You’re fucking strong.
I rolled the bucket over and started scrubbing without looking at Sinclair. It seemed I sucked at cleaning because instead of disappearing, his blood mixed with the water made nothing but a pale pink mess that only got bigger with every pass.
Great … I’m only making it worse.
The real problem was the dark pool still trapped under his body. There was no way to reach it without moving him, and unless Sinclair suddenly became a zombie—which would create an entirely new list of problems—I was going to have to do it myself.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
I held my breath to stop from retching, crouched, and grabbed Sinclair’s arm.
His skin was still warm.
I almost dropped him.
Don’t think about it.
Grunting, I rolled him onto his side, but his dead weight nearly took me down with him. I caught myself against the bloody floor, and because this night hadn’t humiliated me enough, the ends of my hair landed straight in the mess.
Ugh, of course.
Brooks’s spit wouldn’t be the worst thing I had to wash out of my hair.
I shoved the mop under Sinclair and scrubbed as far as I could reach. If Brooks complained about me missing a spot, I’d put this mop up his ass.
The TV came back on.
Dad’s murder started playing again.
I turned my back to it, humming “No Scrubs” under my breath as I scrubbed harder, trying to drown out his screams.
I looked over my shoulder when my dad’s cries ended, and a woman’s voice replaced them. Brooks was now on the screen, leading some gorgeous woman toward a desk.
Excuse me?
I straightened so fast I nearly dropped the mop.
She dropped to her knees in front of him. I had no idea who she was, and she’d done nothing wrong, but I hated her. It seemed my feminism had limits when it involved Brooks’s cock.
“Don’t you dare do it,” I warned the screen.
She unbuttoned his pants and stroked him.
Brooks tipped his head back.
Oh, I’m going to kill him.
Just as she was about to start sucking him, he caught her by the hair and looked directly in the camera.
“This is what’ll happen if you don’t listen,” he warned. “Disobey me again, and I’ll make you sit in this room and watch.”
A door behind him opened. A masked Son shoved Cory inside.
Cory stumbled, looking from Brooks to the woman kneeling beside him.
Brooks clapped him on the shoulder. “Someone’s here to suck your cock.” He left the room.
The woman shifted on her knees to face Cory.
I waited for the jealousy like I’d just felt for Brooks.
For that irrational urge to rip her away from him by her hair.
Nope. Nothing.
Cory let out a groan from the screen.
“Well then,” I muttered before walking to the table.
I took a drink of water and tuned out his moans.
“Yeah,” Cory grunted. “Take it all. Swallow all that jizz.”
I nearly gagged.
Thank God I wasn’t becoming his Fawn.
His dirty talk wasn’t sexy.
Cory disappeared from the screen, and “Welcome to the Jungle” blasted through the speakers.
I poured water over my hands and scrubbed at the dried blood trapped around my fingernails. I used the rest to wipe the reddish streaks off my bare feet.
The door clicked open behind me.
I twisted around as another masked Son stepped inside.
Not Brooks.
Disappointment hit me before I could stop it.
He crooked two fingers at me. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding bored.
I’d know that deep, merciless voice anywhere.
Enzo.
The only person I’d ever heard him soften it for was Blair.
When I didn’t move fast enough, he seized my wrist and dragged me into the hallway.
The second he let go of me, I spun around and took off in the opposite direction.
“Motherfucker,” Enzo muttered.
I made it maybe five feet.
He locked his arm around my waist and dragged me right back to him before my pathetic escape attempt had even gotten started. I dug my heels into the concrete, but all that accomplished was scraping the hell out of my bare feet.
So much for that plan.
“Don’t do this,” Enzo warned. “I promised Blair I’d go easy on you. Don’t make me go back on my word to her.”
“Fine.” I stopped fighting him.
He shoved another door open and pushed me inside.
I sank my teeth into his hand, just in case they really had killed my father. I needed to punish as many of them as I could.
“Fucking bitch.” Enzo ripped his hand away and inspected the fresh teeth marks. “You never miss an opportunity to be annoying.”
I gave him a sweet smile.
He checked the camera before lowering his voice. “FYI, your dad’s alive … unfortunately.”
“You swear?” My voice cracked.
Fresh tears burned behind my eyes as the brutal video replayed in my mind.
Brooks had already told me it was fake, but hearing it from Enzo killed the last bit of doubt still poisoning my brain.
“The video was fake.” Enzo ripped a heavy black robe off a wall hook and tossed it at my chest. “Now, go finish your Initiation. I have better places to be.”