As Charles walked closer, Jac crinkled his nose at the smell of him—of blood and antiseptic. “Hasn’t Sophia told you what I can do?” Charles asked.
When Jac took on pain, it needed to come from somewhere. He imagined that was also true of when Charles gave it. If so, Charles had walked into this fight heavily armed.
Jac stripped down to his undershirt, which was several sizes too large to conceal more of his skin. The tape and gauze he always wore around his knuckles extended up his forearms. Only a few inches were exposed below his sleeve, pale skin covered in various tattoos. His inner elbow itched slightly underneath his bandages, but he ignored it. He could push past his fear.
Charles never bothered to close the doors, so the music from downstairs pulsed in here, and some of the red lights danced across the floor.
“There’s no audience,” Charles said. “Before, during, and after your death, the party will continue in this casino. No one will know who you were or what happened to you, or that you existed at all.”
“I said I didn’t want to talk,” Jac spat. Really, he didn’t want Charles to see how his words had disturbed him.
Charles grinned. “Then hit me.”
Jac approached, his fists raised. First he aimed for Charles’s chest, then his face, his sides. Charles blocked most of his blows, but he did nothing to counter them. It was difficult for Jac to lose himself in this fight, like he always did. There was no sound of an audience cheering or whistles blowing. The reflections in the mirrors played tricks on his vision and balance, but Jac still fought with everything he had, and before long, he’d backed Charles into the wall beside the door.
Every time he hit Charles, the man smiled. His teeth were red with blood.
“Keep hitting me, Jac,” he said, his voice edged and manic. “Keep hitting me. Keep hitting me.” And Jac did, even as Charles repeated himself over and over. He should be winning—no matter his talent, Charles should be collapsing from the pain of it all—but somehow, Charles remained standing. He watched Jac with reddened eyes, and then he spit at him, landing bloody saliva on Jac’s cheek. “Keep hitting me, why don’t you?”
Jac shoved him against the mirror, and Charles’s head thumped hard against the glass, leaving a web of cracks. Still, Charles laughed. Jac held his forearm against Charles’s neck, pinning his wrists behind him. He pressed down hard, choking him.
“You’re still afraid,” Charles rasped with the little breath he had.
“You’re shatz,” Jac growled. When he’d imagined this fight, it wasn’t like this. It had felt more satisfying. Even if Charles died tonight, Jac would still hear his laugh in his nightmares. In that way, Charles would still have won.
“You’re afraid of killing me,” Charles rasped. His eyes fixed on the Creed Jac wore around his neck. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”
“Iwantto kill you.” It was both the truth and a lie. Taking an innocent life was an unforgivable sin in the Faith, but Charles was far from innocent.
“You don’t. You don’t you don’t you don’t.” Charles gasped as Jac pushed on his throat harder. “Maybe...I...can help you...want.”
Then he turned his head just enough to lick the exposed skin of Jac’s arm.
It hurt.
It hurt where Charles had touched him. It hurt afterward, when Jac wrenched his arm away, where his skin was still wet from Charles’s tongue. It hurt all over him, like a fire lit within his veins. Jac staggered back and clutched at his stomach as the pain washed over him.
Charles straightened and cracked his neck. The smile fell from his face, his expression turning serious. “It’s finally time to play.”
While Jac caught his breath and lurched forward, desperately aiming to strike, Charles’s hand found the light switch. The room turned dark, and the doors suddenly closed. Charles caught Jac’s punch by the wrist and wrenched his arm up. Jac kneed him hard—hard enough to hear one of his ribs crack—but Charles’s grip barely even loosened. His tongue found Jac’s skin again, tracing down his underarm where his sleeve had slipped. Jac screamed, and his knees buckled.
Charles held him there as he rode out agony’s wave. Up close, he smelled vaguely acidic—an odor Jac recognized immediately as Rapture. The drug was probably the only thing keeping Charles from passing out.
Charles’s finger traced up Jac’s stomach beneath his shirt. Jac grabbed his arm to push him away, but he was weak from the pain of it all. Even the fabric of his shirt burned him, as thoughhisskin had been lashed. Charles found Jac’s bruises from old fights and played them as though they were piano keys.
“Keep hitting me, Jac,” Charles said. He punched Jac hard in the stomach, skin hitting skin, knuckles hitting bone. “Keep hitting me, Jac. Keep hitting me, Jac.” Blow after blow, and Charles’s grip on his left arm was the only thing keeping Jac from collapsing on the floor. The contents of his stomach spun, and Jac barely had enough control left to keep them down. To keep himself breathing.
Charles snapped his fingers in front of Jac’s face. “Stay with me. No fainting.”
He let go of him, and Jac hit the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His mind urged his body to scramble up, to run, but everything ached. He was helpless as Charles grabbed his leg and dragged him toward the back of the room, like an alligator pulling its victim into the deep. Jac arched his neck only enough to see the crack of red light beneath the door. It was a glimpse of hope, and it was growing farther away.
Jac had walked into Luckluster knowing this could be his fate, and no matter what Charles did to him, he didn’t want to break enough to regret his decision. He’d come here to save Sophia and Levi. He’d come here to destroy the empire that had nearly destroyed him.
But it hurt. So much.
His skin, his bruises, his bones, his stomach, his head. Everything hurt. And every time a wave of pain began to fade, Charles seemed to sense it. As he dragged Jac across the floor, his pointer finger found its way under Jac’s sock, twisting beneath the cotton, stroking the smooth parts of the skin below his ankle. Jac tried to stifle his screams, but it seemed like everything only hurt more, then. He could see nothing but the red light, feel and hear and smell nothing but Charles. He didn’t even have enough lucidity in him to form a useless sinner’s prayer.
Charles dropped his leg. Jac managed to prop himself up on his elbows, but Charles’s shoe found his breastbone and pushed him down. He grabbed Charles’s calf to push him off, but he could only sputter, only gasp.
