Page 20

At the end of the hall is a door that hisses when he badges it open. Inside is white tile, white as bleached teeth, with a drain in the center and a single row of stainless fixtures along one wall. The shower room is colder than outside, and the air tastes like peroxide. My stomach does a flip.

He chains me to a metal loop set high in the tile, just above head height. It's a familiar angle—hands up, ribs stretched, feet flat. Less familiar is how naked I am; my clothes were cut off me the minute I was secured. My arms are up and my cock is exposed, limp and shriveled and dumb, but it still matters. It's the first time in my life I've felt this completely on display and had no play to make it mine.

With I sigh, I look straight ahead. Straight into those eyes.

Bentley. He takes up all the space, a man who expects to be measured by the sum of his violence. His hair is perfect. His hands are empty. He closes the door with a click.

He crosses to the wall, presses a switch. The light shifts from blue to a yellow so harsh it makes the white tile clinical, almost radioactive. The air steams, but the water hasn't started yet.

He looks at me, and the temperature in the room drops a few degrees.

"Medical assessment begins now," he says, voice smooth, but with an edge.

I want to speak, but my mouth is dry and the chain doesn't let me drop my arms. I meet his stare, and it's like trying to hold onto ice with bare hands.

He doesn't approach right away. He stands off, watching, maybe memorizing every bruise and abrasion, every patch of sweat and stubble. He takes his time. Finally, he moves closer, steps into the shallow pan of the drain, and flicks a switch above my head.

A spray of water erupts, cold enough to slap every inch of exposed skin. I gasp and buck, but the chain only lets my arms twist in their sockets. The water needles down my neck, across my chest, and puddles under my feet, carrying shivers up the backs of my legs. My nipples are hard as coins. My cock is nowhere to be found, tucked up tight as if trying to retreat into my body.

He lets me suffer the cold for a full minute before he speaks again.

"Raise your chin," he orders. I do, water sheeting off my face. He steps in and inspects my throat, fingers splayed. He presses, just hard enough to make it uncomfortable. He stares at my jugular for a beat, as if timing the pulse.

His hand is warm, the contrast shocking.

He moves down. His fingers trace the edge of my bruised ribs, press into the places where the handlers left marks, and pause at each spot like he's taking inventory of damage for a ledger. He circles me, every pass an orbit tighter than the last, never losing that meticulous focus.

When he reaches my lower back, I brace for pain, but all I get is the pressure of his knuckles. Click. He finishes his circuit, returns to face me, and holds out a palm for me to lower my arms.

The chain is unlocked. I flex my wrists, blood returning in angry pins and needles. I keep my hands at my sides, unsure of the rules.

He steps in closer, so close his breath fogs on my chest.

"Do you understand the nature of The Crown?" he asks, voice low.

I shake my head. Water runs down my back, but I refuse to shiver.

He says, "Medical, psychological, and behavioral. You have exceeded projection in two of three. Your work ethic is unparalleled. You didn’t cave during psychological testing. Now is the third."

He reaches out, grabs my jaw, and tilts it up again. His thumb brushes the line of my cheek, slow, almost tender, but I know better. He's reading me, the way a dog reads the tension in a leash.

I want to bite him, but I don't.

He drops my chin and gestures to the far end of the room. "Take two steps back, Richards."

I obey. My feet slap the tile, water dripping off my body, puddling wherever I step. The cold is starting to fade, replaced by a different kind of heat.

He follows, never looking away. "The point of this test," he says, "is to confirm that you are healthy, and that you can perform under observation. Consider this a demonstration."

I nod, because what else do you do?

He produces a bottle from a steel drawer—plain, clear, unmarked. He twists the cap, holds it out. "Drink," he commands.

I take the bottle. The liquid inside is tasteless, thicker than water, but not syrupy. I expect a burn, a fizz, anything. It's just cold, clear, and leaves a faint chemical aftertaste. I hand the bottle back.

He waits a few seconds, watching my every micro expression. I look him in the eye, daring him to blink.

After a beat, he sets the bottle down and steps closer. "Now," he says, "I want you to masturbate."