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Finally, I hear the professor get up and go downstairs, so I take it as my cue to head into the bathroom to check my appearance before going down myself.
There’s almost as much hair escaping my hair tie as there is remaining in the ponytail it had been in. My face is covered in streaks of makeup and dirt—which it no doubt had been when Dr. Wright carried me through the door.
My hair is easier to fix than my face, so I quickly retie the ponytail. Then I attempt to wash my face as best I can without any makeup remover. When I look half decent, I go to find the professor.
Dr. Wright’s house seemed bigger last night. In the dim morning light, it’s much smaller. And cold, though not from the temperature so much as his lack of personality.
I assumed that the room I’d slept in was the guest bedroom, but after opening a few drawers and the closet, seeing various items in the bathroom had me reassessing that line of thought. There were no pictures on the wall, not even when I get downstairs.
The hallway opens up into a living room, which seems larger than it is because of the lack of furniture: one couch, an old, mismatching armchair, and a large television hanging over the fireplace.
I walk through the living room to the kitchen and stand in the doorway. Dr. Wright’s back is to me as he stands at the stove cooking eggs. Cracked eggshells are stacked in a bowl beside him.
The toaster pops, and he turns the heat down before moving to the fridge. “Coffee’s brewed if you want a cup,” he says like he knew I’d been there all along. He pulls out some butter and creamer, setting the bottle down in front of me before he walks over to the toaster.
I glance to the side, spotting the machine and two mugs in front of it. One is already full, so I pour myself a cup and then sit down at the small breakfast table, bringing his drink with me.
Moments later, Dr. Wright places a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of me before sitting opposite with his own breakfast.
“Thank you,” I say. Then I dig in, practically inhaling my food.
I finish before the professor has even made his way through half of his meal, and I instantly regret eating so quickly, because now, I’ve got nothing to do.
“Thank you for last night, Dr. Wright,” I say, eventually.
“Payne.”
“A little, but I’ll be okay.”
His lips press into a thin line as he lowers his knife and fork. “My name. Payne.”
“Oh.” No sound comes out as I move my lips.
When we went to New York, chasing a lead, he told me his name was Payne, and that I should call him that, but the excursion hardly made us besties. Even in his house, it doesn’t seem right to call him that.
He doesn’t say anything else, but he also doesn’t pick his cutlery back up.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened last night?” I ask.
There isn’t a single hair on his head, but Payne leans back and rubs his hand over the back of it before lowering his hand and letting out a sigh. “The Elite.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
He stares at me for a long time; his dark eyes seem to be looking for something on my face. Slowly, the ice begins to melt, and like in New York, I see some warmth. “If I hadn’t come when I did, what would have happened?”
“I’d have been put into the trunk of that car and returned to Syn. He said if I was caught, he was going to let every member of the Elite fuck me, and I don’t think Syn would go back on his word.”
Payne gently taps his fingers on the table as he processes my words. “You’d have let him?”
I shrug.
Last night, I probably would have used that safe word, though I’m not completely convinced it would have let me off the rest of the week. And if it had, would Syn try the same thing again another time?
At once, the warmth in Payne’s eyes is replaced with anger. “You would.”
Narrowing my eyes, I glare back at him. “Joining the Elite might be a farce, but the conditions were that I do what I’m told. I still haven’t found my answers, so I can’t leave yet. Which means I’ll do whatever stupid hazing—”
“End it.”
