I hate it. Them. This situation.
The rage fuels me.
The threat of peeing myself feels horrifically imminent. My bladder is burning. I didn’t know bladders could do that. Outside of UTIs. And this is worse.
So much worse.
I could pee.
So easily.
Let go.
Relieve the pressure.
Fuck.
In the back of my mind, I can’t help but think of the people who don’t have the promise of a barrage of lawyers to protect them. I can’timagine how scary it is to be behind this table without the backing of a family like mine.
And then there’s Maxim.
I hate that this whole thing has spread distrust between us.
I want to shove it aside, but my mind won’t let me. It’s as if they showed me the pictures and the knife just to rile me up, to make me questionhim.
Is that possible?
I mean… it could be.
Maxim said something about Derek Dyers wanting to vouch for me first, but that Harrington Sr. expected me to partner with his son… so, I don’t know what any of that means aside from Maxim’s presence coming as a surprise to them.
I remember the pause in the crowd when he answered the Veronian call as he vouched for me.
Is that what this is about?
They want to tear us apart?
I know they’re looking for weaknesses.
And my subconscious clung to that—putting Maxim in the bad seat. But he’s mine.
I’m his.
How many times has he shown up for me?
How many heads have rolled to keep me safe?
Finally, Bordeau walks in.
With a bucket.
My nostrils flare in disgust but my tongue gets the better of me. “Should have told me you were into golden showers, sicko. I’d have facilitated your perversions earlier.”
He hurls the bucket at me. “Bitch!”
It slams into my head, but the plastic’s too light to do much damage. It acts as a reminder that my reflexes are shot. Something that’s confirmed when I’m slow to react as he releases one of my cuffs.
Afterward, the door clicks upon his exit and the lock sounds. I awkwardly stand and manage to work it out so that I don’t create a mess.
