Page 45

He closes the distance, slow, and sets his phone on the desk. “The Crown is over,” he says. “You don’t need to wear the scars.”

I tip my head. “No. I think I do.”

He stands close enough that I can smell the rain on his skin. His hands are at his sides, open, but ready. I don’t know if he’s going to touch me or take me out.

“Take it off,” he says, but there’s no threat behind it.

I shake my head. “No.”

For the first time, his face changes. There’s a tick at the edge of his jaw, just above the new scar. The lamp throws a line of shadow down his face, splitting him into before and after.

“Why?” he asks.

I lean in, just enough so he can hear my breathing. “Because I want you to see what you made.”

The silence between us is heavy enough to crush. I can feel his pulse in the air, the way it quickens just a fraction.

He steps back, his eyes narrowed to slits. I can tell he’s running every calculation, weighing the outcome of playing along or fighting back.

But he doesn’t do either.

Instead, he walks around the desk, sits in the big leather chair, and waits.

His right hand rests on the armrest, fingers tapping out a pattern I recognize as Morse. He’s spelling out nothing, just the chaos in his head.

I stay standing, the mask fixed in place. The heat from the lamp is starting to overheat my skin, but I keep my posture perfect.

We don’t speak for a full minute.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is lower. “You want to punish me, Richards?”

I let the question hang, then answer: “No. I want to teach you how it feels.”

He smiles. Not a big one, just the barest twitch at the mouth. “You think you know what I feel?”

I shake my head. “I know you don’t feel. But I think you want to.”

He leans forward, elbows to desk, hands steepled. “And you want to be the one to make me.”

I tilt my head, the mask shifting. “That’s the only reason I’m still here.”

He stands. The chair rolls back an inch.

I expect him to come for me, but instead he reaches for a drawer and pulls out a folded sheet of black silk.

He tosses it across the desk. “Put this on.”

I look at the fabric. I don’t move.

“Do it,” he says.

I take the silk in hand. It’s heavier than I expect, cold and soft. I unroll it—turns out it’s a short, sleeveless robe, probably meant for one of his acquisitions. The kind of thing you wear to a negotiation when you want to look compliant but feel like a razor underneath.

I slip it on over my shoulders. It hangs to mid-thigh. The mask stays on.

He nods once, as if this confirms a hypothesis.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the edge of the desk.