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NINETY-ONE
XERO
I wake up feeling like I’m living the same hellish day on repeat. Agony pounds through my temples, and my throat is raw from screaming. I’m staring at the electric chair through the bars of a cage, already plotting my escape.
My gaze wanders past the dried blood pooled across the floor to Camila’s motionless body. A cold knife of grief slices into my heart, breaking through the haze. The last thing I remember was cradling her as she died, before everything went sideways.
Father’s drug pulled me into a violent nightmare where I fucked Amethyst, killed Dolly, and hacked through a crowd of bodies. I felt untouchable, powerful in my vengeful rampage until everything turned black.
Raising stained hands to my face, I wonder if there’s more to the dream than just my tortured imagination. There’s too much blood to be Camila’s. It’s on my cheeks, encrusted in my hair, on the tips of my lashes. If I tore through Father’s associates, then which twin did I fuck and kill?
I scramble to my feet, my heart lurching with a jarring rhythm. The mere thought of betraying my delicateghost is inconceivable. The prospect of harming her—even unintentionally—is unfathomable.
The door swings open, and a short man pokes his head into the room. His eyes widen as they land on mine, and he takes a step inside.
“Xero Greaves,” he says, his voice breathy with reverence. He wears a plain gray suit with a matching tie, the outfit as unremarkable as his fawning. “Delta said I’d find you here, but he also said you’d be unconscious!”
My jaw clenches.
“I’m a huge fan of your work,” he continues, his gaze lingering on my chest. “The stepmother murder videos were… impressive.”
Rage surges through my veins, a hot, burning inferno. I grind my teeth at the implication that Father is treating my captivity like a fucking zoo.
Forcing myself to remain calm, I snort. “How much did you pay for the privilege to grope me in my sleep?”
Cheeks pinking, he scurries closer to the cage. He doesn’t reply, but the way his gaze sweeps down my form confirms my suspicions. My heart pounds, and blood roars in my ears, threatening to drown out all rational thought. Sucking in a deep breath, I shove down my outrage and focus on using him to my advantage.
The man stops out of grabbing range and gazes up at me through his lashes. “Did you get those piercings in prison?”
“Only one of them,” I reply, forcing myself not to cringe at the sensation of being infested by crawling ants.
He steps close enough that I can see the thread-like veins across his cheeks and how the spaces in his sparse hairline fill with sweat.
“Which one?”
My hand slides down my abs, making his breath catch. I lift my cock and point at the patch of skin where its base meets my balls.
He gasps. “You have a scrotal ladder?”
“Can’t you see the flesh tunnel?” I ask.
Brow furrowing, he leans closer and squints. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Step closer and you’ll see,” I say, my voice lowering an octave.
The fanboy’s breath quickens. He glances up to meet my eyes and I raise my brow in challenge. Licking his lips, he steps closer to the cage. Then he raises a trembling hand and whispers, “May I?”
I snatch his wrist, yank him closer, and slam his head into the metal bars, creating a satisfying thud. Blood gushes from his nose like a broken faucet, and he screams. I deliver two more blows, each one more satisfying than the last.
The air thickens with the scent of iron as he crumples to the floor. I guide him down beside the cage and rifle through his pockets until I find a phone. With trembling fingers, I dial Tyler’s number, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He answers on the first ring. “What?”
“It’s me.”
“Where the hell are you?” he asks, his voice filled with worry. “Xero, we’ve been looking for you two everywhere.”
“Hold on.” I put Tyler on speaker, reach for my Prince Albert ring, and unscrew its bead. The deputy police chief isn’t the only person capable of making faraday cages—I prefer to keep mine in my piercings.
