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There’s a pause. “Carter is going to want to see him.”
“Yeah, listen… that might not be the best idea. Casey, well - it’s not pretty, Nate,” I explain, using his operative name because he hates being called Travis when he’s playing the role. It’s easier for him to stay separate if he pretends to be Nathan all the time. I tried that myself, but sometimes I just really need to be Jake. Usually, I call Maison for that to allow Travis to keep himself separated.
“I don’t think Carter cares.”
“Just about everything they've put him through the past week is written all over his body. It's like a road map of torture. And he's still confused mentally. He's having hallucinations whenever his fever spikes.” I sigh. “It won't just be hard on Carter to see him like that. It'll be hard on Casey, too. Confusing. And he can't know the truth yet, he's not together enough mentally to wrap his head around something so big. Seeing Carter could make things worse for him. Add to his distress."
“I’m not telling Carter no,” Travis states firmly.
I sigh, too fucking exhausted to deal with him and his Carter obsession right now. “You’ve never been able to. I shouldn’t have even wasted my time.”
“Benny-” he starts, using my operative name.
I have no idea why, but that’s it for me. I snap.
“I don’t have it in me to argue about it, Nate. I’ve been up for 36 hours, I’m covered in sweat and vomit, and I’m risking my life and this mission to make the boy you love happy. Do me the fucking courtesy of not making me dwell on it.”
“Fair enough…”
I sigh, remembering my place in the big picture of our lives. I need to make things easier for Travis. I need to smooth out the ripples. “I’m sorry. I’m just - it’s been a long fucking day, you know?”
“I get it,” he says, sounding relieved. “You go, I won’t hold you up. Try to give yourself a break though, yeah? At least shower.”
I laugh dryly. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do my best. Stay safe.”
“You too, brother.”
I catch sight of myself in the mirror of the bedroom I excused myself to, wincing when I see my reflection. I look like absolute shit. And that’s definitely some vomit in my hair.
Maybe I’ll take that shower after all. Just real fast. Then I’ll take Casey away from this place once and for all.
Chapter Five
Casey
I'm awoken by being dragged out of bed, my feet scrambling for purchase on the floor as someone holds me up with one hand on my bicep and one in my hair. I'm naked and shivering, but somehow hot too. My legs wobble beneath the weight of my body. I blink and blink, but my eyes won't focus.
The hands on me disappear and I collapse. I immediately force myself into the proper kneeling position, my body sluggish and uncooperative. It hurts to put pressure on my knees, but it’s not nearly as painful as what would happen if I didn’t manage to kneel. I try not to remember the last time I failed at it.
I sense people moving closer to me, objects blurring, colors bleeding together. I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzziness out of it. That whooshing from before is back in my ears again.
“Esclave.”
Master’s voice sends a chill down my spine. I think it’s on instinct more than anything that I manage to turn my chin toward him, giving him my attention without looking at him. At least, I hope I’m not looking at him. My eyes are still blurry. I think my head is spinning. Or the room is. Or both.
“What do you want him to do?” Master asks. It takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking to me. Someone else is in the room.
There’s a stretch of silence that burrows beneath my skin and itches. I try to keep my heart from pounding so I can listen, but it’s getting harder to breathe. Why is it quiet? Who is Master speaking to? What's going on?
“I want to see his hole,” someone finally says. An American. There's a distant memory in my head of an American speaking to me. One at the party? Carter's master? No. After that. Here, in the house. Wasn't he here? In the room? Didn't he talk to the doctor? Didn’t he talk to me? He said - he said-
"Present," Master snaps. I swallow a whimper as I maneuver my body into the requested position. The pain is sharp and awful, but bringing my head closer to the floor seems to help my eyes clear.
"Awfully pretty hole for someone with his history," the American muses. I'm too far gone to be embarrassed by the words. That's what I’m good for - my hole. Of course he’d want to see it. I should be pleased with the compliment, actually. I’m in too much pain to feel the pleasure though. "How about his cock?"
"Turn around," Master orders. "Show him your pathetic little cock."
I used to get so angry about that. I almost laugh at the memories. Who the fuck cares if they call my cock small or pathetic? The thing hasn't left its cage since I was purchased. It probably is small at this point. For good. As it should be. What does someone like me need a cock for? It's a piss slit. Nothing more.
