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And I find a picture of the long-haired asshole with the guitar.
The name of the person who pays his tuition is Odin’s younger brother, Vili Bestlasson.
“Odin will be disappointed his nephew is such a clown,” I mutter before searching for a few random students.
No matter how tempting her demands, I don’t intend to submit. Blackmail goes both ways. If the young woman dresses like a Sunday school teacher to see her father, then I doubt she would want him to know how she conducts herself when he’s not around.
I pull out my phone and type out the message,
How would Gordon Gofannon react to knowing his daughter is propositioning strange men?
Seconds later, the system informs me that it has been read.
The texting bubbles appear on screen, indicating that she’s typing a reply. My breath quickens, and I ready myself for a battle of wills. But after a minute, they disappear.
My lips curl into a smile.
This is a game of mutually assured destruction. She won’t dare reveal my secret if I threaten to reveal hers.
Phoenix doesn’t reply to my message, and I can only assume she’s changed her mind about the blackmail. Early on Wednesday morning, the removal company wakes me up to deliver a basement full of unneeded playroom furniture.
I lean against the wall, half asleep, watching their supervisor set up the new playroom to the exact specifications as they’d found it in London. After tipping them, I hang up my purchases from Saturday and growl.
What a waste of beautiful equipment.
Each new sub deserves brand new toys to be used on her and her alone. It’s why I always divest myself of everything when an arrangement ends. I stand back, admiring my new collection of handmade floggers and paddles and crops.
I had thought Phoenix warranted the best. There had been something so enthusiastic and raw about her—as though there had been a firestorm trying to burst through her exterior of respectability and innocence.
Now, I guess I’ll never know.
When Phoenix doesn’t appear in my lecture on Thursday, I return to the office to see if she has dropped out of University or even left the campus. But the records reveal nothing.
I call Crius—the only person who might be able to shed light on what happened to her father.
He answers after one ring. “Marius, my boy—”
“What can you tell me about Gordon Gofannon?” I don’t allow him to remind me that we share DNA.
Crius pauses, and I can already picture his lips tightening with disapproval. “He’s the new warden.”
“Of what?”
“Seacroft Prison,” he replies as though the answer is obvious. “A maximum security facility the four families set up eight years ago to hold the worst of our kind. Its location is a mystery to everyone but a select few.”
“Odin?” I say.
“Odin, Dagda, Shango, and Uranos. The whole purpose of this mission is to reveal the prison’s location.”
My brows rise. “Indeed?”
“You would know this if you ever conversed with me for longer than two minutes,” he says, his voice weary.
His jab lands without so much as a sting. I glance at the time and wonder who I have to bribe to organize Crius a cell in this fine establishment.
I’m about to prove his point and hang up, when he says, “Why are you asking about Gofannon?”
“Someone mentioned his name.” I mutter.
