paradox. Does he want me to fail in order to pass? Or pass by refusing what he says … in which case I’ll protect myself, but then he’ll deem that I’ve failed? I don’t know which impulse to trust. Jessica said to be me , but if I secretly want to harm myself, that’s exactly the wrong choice. So many double negatives. If I’m self-destructive by my very nature, being me in order to pass Caspian’s test is the single most reliable way to ensure that I fail.
Caspian motions for Trevor to approach the chaise. He moves into the spotlight, and his eyes apologize to me. But dammit, between looking at Daniel and looking at Trevor, I’m sort of getting turned on. Because I hate me. Because I want what’s wrong for me.
“Tell me, Bridget,” Caspian goes on, with Daniel still beside him. “When you first met your foster brother, Brandon — before you formed your bond, before you grew older and got used to him, when he was just the latest leather-jacketed loser tossed into your broken cage — did you ever touch yourself while thinking about him?”
“No,” I say, but I finally break eye contact. I feel crushed. Dominated. Broken into a thousand pieces.
“Poor little girl,” Caspian coos, his voice sinister. “You’re damaged goods, but an emotional virgin. You truly are innocent. You truly are pure. But it’s barely a good thing, if at all. You don’t have a gift of considered restraint. You’re simply more conditioned to feel shame about your sexuality than you are willing to act out. You won’t allow yourself to experience what you truly desire, and what would be better for you than some fucking rat .”
I look at Trevor, just a few feet away. I look at Daniel, right beside the throne. Trevor, who’s been nothing but sweet and considerate. Or Daniel, who has hurt me, even when he’s loved me.
Both men look at me. I look at Caspian.
“You think you know me,” I say, summoning the little strength I can manage. “But you don’t.”
“Then prove it,” Caspian says.
And from the ceiling, heavy canvas walls fall to isolate me and Trevor from the room beyond.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daniel
Canvas falls from the ceiling, and I feel like I’ve swallowed something large — at least the size of a lemon, possibly a cantaloupe. There’s no machinery in place for something like that in the rec room, so Caspian’s somehow had modifications done without bothering to ask. Without construction noise or me noticing a thing. I suppose it’s possible there’s a crane off to the side in the dark, but it’s equally likely that the addition is elaborate, and that the board gave him approval without bothering to inform us.
My alarm bells are screaming.
That’s my woman in there with my friend. That’s my woman in there with the man who’s become my mortal enemy.
I’ve seen all of the response cues on her, since we’ve been apart. Since this final (or, I guess, next-to-final) ruse began. I’ve reviewed the footage like a jealous detective. I’ve analyzed the room data, the body temperature monitors, the galvanic skin response sensors embedded into half the mansion’s chairs, bannisters, and doorknobs. I doubt Bridget intends to respond to Trevor just yet, but her body feels different. She’s a young woman, mid-month, when her evolutionary drive to reproduce is strongest. She’s been abandoned by her mate, and biologically driven to find a suitable replacement.
Perhaps one with nice, juicy, blue-blooded genes like Trevor.
But he wouldn’t do this to me. Not now. Not when so much is on the line.
Or would he?
I care about her, too, he once told me.
Like a friend. Like a brother.
Until someone traps them alone together and, surely, means to set off half a dozen conditioned triggers. I don’t monitor Trevor, but I still know what he must be thinking.
I look at Bridget, and it’s like she’s the one who’s conditioned me . She’s the one who’s
Caspian motions for Trevor to approach the chaise. He moves into the spotlight, and his eyes apologize to me. But dammit, between looking at Daniel and looking at Trevor, I’m sort of getting turned on. Because I hate me. Because I want what’s wrong for me.
“Tell me, Bridget,” Caspian goes on, with Daniel still beside him. “When you first met your foster brother, Brandon — before you formed your bond, before you grew older and got used to him, when he was just the latest leather-jacketed loser tossed into your broken cage — did you ever touch yourself while thinking about him?”
“No,” I say, but I finally break eye contact. I feel crushed. Dominated. Broken into a thousand pieces.
“Poor little girl,” Caspian coos, his voice sinister. “You’re damaged goods, but an emotional virgin. You truly are innocent. You truly are pure. But it’s barely a good thing, if at all. You don’t have a gift of considered restraint. You’re simply more conditioned to feel shame about your sexuality than you are willing to act out. You won’t allow yourself to experience what you truly desire, and what would be better for you than some fucking rat .”
I look at Trevor, just a few feet away. I look at Daniel, right beside the throne. Trevor, who’s been nothing but sweet and considerate. Or Daniel, who has hurt me, even when he’s loved me.
Both men look at me. I look at Caspian.
“You think you know me,” I say, summoning the little strength I can manage. “But you don’t.”
“Then prove it,” Caspian says.
And from the ceiling, heavy canvas walls fall to isolate me and Trevor from the room beyond.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daniel
Canvas falls from the ceiling, and I feel like I’ve swallowed something large — at least the size of a lemon, possibly a cantaloupe. There’s no machinery in place for something like that in the rec room, so Caspian’s somehow had modifications done without bothering to ask. Without construction noise or me noticing a thing. I suppose it’s possible there’s a crane off to the side in the dark, but it’s equally likely that the addition is elaborate, and that the board gave him approval without bothering to inform us.
My alarm bells are screaming.
That’s my woman in there with my friend. That’s my woman in there with the man who’s become my mortal enemy.
I’ve seen all of the response cues on her, since we’ve been apart. Since this final (or, I guess, next-to-final) ruse began. I’ve reviewed the footage like a jealous detective. I’ve analyzed the room data, the body temperature monitors, the galvanic skin response sensors embedded into half the mansion’s chairs, bannisters, and doorknobs. I doubt Bridget intends to respond to Trevor just yet, but her body feels different. She’s a young woman, mid-month, when her evolutionary drive to reproduce is strongest. She’s been abandoned by her mate, and biologically driven to find a suitable replacement.
Perhaps one with nice, juicy, blue-blooded genes like Trevor.
But he wouldn’t do this to me. Not now. Not when so much is on the line.
Or would he?
I care about her, too, he once told me.
Like a friend. Like a brother.
Until someone traps them alone together and, surely, means to set off half a dozen conditioned triggers. I don’t monitor Trevor, but I still know what he must be thinking.
I look at Bridget, and it’s like she’s the one who’s conditioned me . She’s the one who’s
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