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I’ve yet to give her the codes to either doors, and while the thought of making her sleep outside does cross my mind, tonight, I’m feeling generous.
She doesn’t make me wait long enough to change my mind, and a shadow falls across the door through the mottled glass. The handle rattles, then there’s a pause before she knocks on the door. If I weren’t standing in front of it, I wouldn’t have heard the rap from anywhere else in the house.
Denali House is kitted with a video doorbell and a small screen inside most rooms within the house for us to be able to respond. I’m mildly curious as to why she hasn’t used it. However, I walk over and open the door.
She looks up at me but doesn’t speak, waiting for me to move out of her way.
When I do, she walks in, barely acknowledging me like I’m a doorman working one of the hotels in the city. I close the door, aware that I can hear her heels as she stops a few paces away.
Curious.
Silently, I turn back, finding her waiting. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, and overall, she looks calm, but I can see the subtle movement in her jaw, like she’s chewing on the inside of her lip.
I stare directly at her. “What?”
“The collar,” she says without even flinching. “I want it removed.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to take a shower before I go to bed, and I figure you wouldn’t appreciate me waking you up tomorrow morning, considering I need to be at the dining hall so early.”
I tilt my head. “You didn’t shower today?”
There’s a brief moment of tension in her hands, until she breathes deeply. “I did. However, the collar is made of leather, and if I shower with it on, it’s going to stink quickly. So either this comes off…” she raises her hand to point at the sleek black strap around her neck. “Or I don’t shower.”
A part of me is curious as to whether or not she would follow through with that threat. She’s mistaken if she thinks not showering will change my behavior towards her, or if she thinks it will offer her some form of protection from participating in certain aspects of her initiation. Surely, after tonight’s discussion, she’s realized that she escapes nothing, and that if I tell any member of the Elite to line up, they will.
Instead of finding out, I nod.
Prior to last night, I underestimated her. I thought she’d be gone by now.
I certainly hadn’t expected her to be inside this house, prepared to do whatever I tell her to. The reason a skyscraper can withstand an earthquake isn’t because of how flexible it is. It’s because they’re designed to withstand a lot of energy for only short periods of time.
If an earthquake were to last days instead of hours, no building would remain upright.
And I have the energy and drive to rock her world for years, if needed.
There’s a slight frown on her face, as though she doesn’t trust me, and she glances over her shoulder and up the stairs. Then she looks back to me. “The key?”
I unbutton my suit jacket and shrug it from my shoulders. After carefully folding it, I drape it over my left arm. Then I reach into the pocket of my shirt and pull out the small key.
Seamus Moran is not just the housekeeper of this house. He’s also our personal assistant. For the first half of the semester, he has an easy life. The initiates perform most of the duties that he would do the rest of the year. But he’s always on standby should any president or vice president require something—anything.
The Elite has connections, which means opening hours and price tags are redundant. And unusual items like the custom-made collar around her neck can be acquired with ease.
I’d told Moran what I wanted, and it had been left on my desk a day later. When I opened the box and held the piece of leather in my hands, I was certain I’d never get it around her neck—that she would quit at that point.
And yet, here she is.
There’s something about that thin piece of black leather curling around her pale neck that fills me with a deep sense of satisfaction. The text etched onto the silver tag is too small for me to read from this distance, but I know what it says.
Property of Synclair Keyingham.
That bitch belongs to me.
The lock was an afterthought, and not well made. But its presence is symbolic, and it affords me this exact situation.
When she sees I’m not going to move, she walks up to me. After giving me a fake smile, she turns around and brushes her hair off her shoulders. She’s gathered most of it, but a few strands of the deep blue hair fall down her back.
