I wouldn’t put it past the jackass. It’s just sneaky enough for someone like him. Granted, based on what I’ve seen of Dean Anderson, I’ll have at least one ally in my corner. For whatever reason, the dean has a soft spot for me, and I plan to exploit it to the fullest.
Nothing this pompous ass can do will force me to quit. I’m here for the long haul. Or at least until I can figure out how to kill Micha and the rest of the Ravens. Until I decide to leave, this is my home, or at least what I can imagine as a home. No one will force me out, least of all this idiot savant.
“Hey genius,” I taunt, no longer feeling threatened by him. “You got the wrong hand.”
“Oh. Do I?”
With one hard yank, the shrink pulls on one of the smaller ropes, tugging on the index finger of my left hand. Before I can even process what he’s doing, a loud crack fills the room as he dislocates the finger. Agony blossoms through my hand and travels down my arm and into my shoulder.
For a moment, my vision waivers as blackness threatens to encroach. Nausea bubbles in my gut and races up my throat, threatening to choke me. He did it. The bastard actually did it. For the most part, I thought he was bluffing, trussing me up just to make me feel uncomfortable.
I never thought he’d actually cause me this type of pain. Dread circles my insides like the water in a toilet when you flush it. He’s only the first one. Are they all capable of such violence? Or is it just him?
It takes every bit of willpower to swallow the scream that lodges in my throat. It’s not the pain exactly. I can handle pain. It’s the suddenness, the inability to brace and be prepared. Slowly, Doctor Andrew slides his mask off and tosses it to the ground before walking over to me.
Bending, he speaks into my ear so low that I can barely hear it. “I swear to God. If you do anything to put my Chastity in danger, they will never find your body. You think these ropes hurt, but wait until I get my jute on you. You will beg for mercy, and you will find none.”
I stare at him, my eyes unable to focus. All I can concentrate on is the throbbing pain in my finger and the incessant need to have it put back into place. I don’t dare move my head to look at it. At this point, I’m worried that any extra movement will force the other fingers of my right hand out of place, rendering me incapable of doing anything, including defending myself.
Pulling back, he digs his fingers into the arm that’s swinging there, limp and useless as pain pounds through it. Once more, nausea rolls through my gut as the pain intensifies for those few moments. But I command myself not to hurl.
Puking only gets you a belt. Puking gets you a dick down your throat that just won’t quit. Nothing good ever came from throwing up. Despite the agony flooding my body, my dick, the traitorous organ that it is, starts to twitch.
My eyelids flutter as my body tries to shut down. Sleep. That's all I need. Once I can sleep, the pain will be over. I try so desperately to pull into myself, to self-soothe, but the quack is having none of it. Anytime my eyes drift closed, he’s there with the vilest smelling salts that have ever assaulted my nose.
It causes my brain to jerk back into the present, where the pain is never-ceasing. I want to lash out at the man, to hurt him like he’s hurting me, but even if my other hand wasn’t in danger, I still can’t move. He’s wrapped me into his ropes with the same expertise as a spider trapping its prey.
Flitting my eyes about the space, I glance over at the others waiting their turn. With the masks in place, I can’t see their expressions, and their eyes give nothing away. Even the dean, the one ally I thought I might have, looks on, his gaze impassionate, detached, as if he doesn’t give a damn. And it proves my theory right. For all the posturing of a father, he’s no better than Louis. Dean Anderson will undoubtedly throw me to the wolves if it fits his purpose.
“Let me ask you something.” The shrink’s voice is still low, intimate, as if this discussion is between us and will stay that way, but I don’t trust it. Not after knowing he’s had communications with Louis.
The King himself is a shrink, and no doubt he and Shrinky Dink spent several long hours discussing me and coming up with theories and diagnoses that paint me as some poor, hapless man that can’t control himself.
It’s not biology. It’s not hereditary, at least I don’t think it is. It’s trauma, pure and simple. I don’t need some fancy shrink to tell me that. I know it. I lived it. It’s a core part of who I am.
Sitting in an office for an hour isn’t going to make me feel any sort of way about anything I’ve done. If I’ve been able to survive Ryker, do shrinks honestly think that talking is going to change anything?
Even with the immense pain flooding my body, I still don’t feel like opening up. What would we say anyway? Do I have regrets? Yes. Every damn day I regret trusting Ryker, believing his smile when he came for me at the boy’s home. The people there oohed and ahhed over him like he was the damned king of England.
But what I ended up learning was that money will buy you anything, even a hollowed-out boy just looking for love. He lured me with a baseball and hit me with the bat. He spouted all the right things, looking the part of a doting man that just wanted a son to carry out his legacy.
What would a shrink even do with that? It was in the past. I’ve already learned how to process and handle it. Do I have an anger problem? Hell yeah. I’m furious that money is what makes the world go round. With the right amount, you can say and do anything, and no one will bat an eye.
Take these rich fucks as an example. They’re hidden behind their ivy-league status. They’re much richer than most people, allowing them to grease palms and move in circles many can only dream about. They can pay people to look the other way, a luxury not afforded by most sociopaths.
So what’s the difference then? They both have the same appetites, and yet one is looked at as a fetish while the other is a felony. Money. Money makes the difference. It’s the main reason I never allowed Louis to give me his money. It taints people, corrupts them, and I’m corrupt enough without it.
Looking at the shrink, I note his eyes roving about my face as he studies me, no doubt wanting to craft the perfect question to make all of this worth it. But what will it be? What will be the one question that drips from his lips that will make sense of Luke Lannister?
“What’s your earliest memory?”
That’s it? That’s the question? What form of a question is that? And what does it have to do with anything? Nothing. The man is grasping at straws, looking for shadows where none hide.
“I was born.”
A soft laugh catches my attention. Louis. No doubt he’s finding all of this highly amusing. Well, the joke’s on him. If I didn’t accept his psychiatric help, then there’s no way I’ll accept the help of this quack.
Another loud crack reaches my ears before the pain manages to slam into me. This time, I can’t hold it back. A scream rips from my throat before I can stop it. It floods the room, drawing a gasp from some of the kneeling figures. My eyes drift shut as darkness engulfs me.
The last thing I see before fully succumbing is Louis’s eyes. They watch me, study me, but don’t show even an ounce of care or empathy. What exactly did I expect from him? Just because he wants to be my father doesn’t change who he is. He orchestrates the Ravens’ initiations, proving just how cold-hearted he must be.
* * *