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Dessin has been grilling Helga Bee about everything she knows regarding the layout of the prison. About the security measures they must take to keep prisoners inside. She only knows about the exterior from seeing it herself, and some rumors she’s heard about the security. The prison is the tallest landmark in Vexamen. Three connecting towers. The only way up or down is by rock climbing. Soldiers that arrive every week for Fun House Nights have special equipment, a pulley system, that allows them to easily scale the length until they reach an entrance. But those platforms are crawling with sentinels.
Helga Bee says all possible exits are guarded by swamp dawpers. Cousins of night dawpers. Gangly creatures that can sniff out hot organs a mile away. They devour their prey down to the bone, one lick of their tongues, and their saliva eats right through your skin.
But without a way to remove the device in our ears, we’re sitting ducks.
“I really hate to say anything nice about Demechnef, but shit, I really miss their feather beds!” Niles sighs dramatically, leaning his head against his cage as we get settled in to go to sleep.
“Me, too,” Ruth groans.
Dessin nudges me through the bars that separate us. The circles under his eyes are like smoky bruises, deep and shadowed. I reach out to touch them, running my fingers across his prominent cheekbones.
“You’re not sleeping,” I say sadly. It’s not a question. I know how his system works. When he’s in a high-stress environment, his entire way of existing, as well as that of the other alters, is thrown into a whirlwind of survival mode. Meaning insomnia, migraines, vomiting, depression. I can see it all on his face, no matter how hard he tries to hide it from me.
“I’m okay.”
“Dessin…”
“Baby, I survived the asylum for four years. I’m fine.” But his warm mahogany eyes are so tired, so weak. My heart cracks down the middle.
“What can I do?” I whisper.
He reaches his brawny arm through the bars, his hand cupping the side of my face. I lean into his heat, and my eyes close on instinct.
“This,” he murmurs, fingers massaging the side of my head. “I’m dying to touch you.”
His deep voice chases away the chill in my bones, drawing heat from my center. I open my mouth to suck more oxygen into my lungs.
“If I slip my fingers between your legs, will you clench around me? Just once?” he asks with dark arousal glazing over his eyes.
I bite my tongue to keep from moaning. We have zero privacy here. But God, the sexual tension has been building like a shaken bottle of champagne.
I nod eagerly. Just one touch, quietly, discreetly.
Dessin sits up quickly, suddenly wide awake. He angles his hand between my legs, grazing the back of his finger along my soaking wet slit. I squirm at the contact, and he flexes his jaw, closing his eyes in silent euphoria.
“I should be fucking you every day,” he utters, pulling his finger away to see how it glistens in the glowing light of the flickering bulbs.
“Yes.”
“You should be sitting on my face to wake me up every morning,” he adds, blacking out at the thought.
I let out a quiet hum. Low enough to avoid our friends hearing me.
The corners of his mouth tick upward. He prods my entrance with two fingers, unable to fit them both in. We exhale in unison.
“Aquarus told me about your moment with him.”
I look up at his brooding face, clenched jaw, and dilated pupils.
“And?” I inquire.
“I got jealous.”
I blink in surprise. My first night with Greystone, Dessin told me he wouldn’t get jealous. That it was different being with alters.
“It made my dick so hard,” he whispers, then begins circling the ring of my ass with another finger. “I wanted to fuck the thought of him right out of you.”
“But you said—”
