Page 142 of The Arbiter
Charles.
He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit with an overcoat, looking like he just stepped out of a board meeting rather than a prison visitation room. He picks up the phone, his movements slow and deliberate. He waits, his gaze raking over my disheveled appearance, my bruised face, my broken spirit.
I slowly reach for the receiver. My hand feels like lead. The hope that was burning in my chest just seconds ago is extinguished, leaving nothing but the cold, black ash of reality.
I press the phone to my ear.
"You look broken, Deimos," Charles says, his voice perfectly clear, perfectly calm.
"Did you really think she was coming? Did you really believe that after everything you did to her, that she’d want to see you again?"
I don't say a word. I can't. The silence of the cell was better than this.
"She’s safe now," Charles continues, a small, devastating smile playing on his lips.
"She’s at the estate. She’s finally home, where she belongs. And do you want to know what she asked me this morning, while we were having breakfast?"
He leans in closer to the glass, his eyes narrowing.
"She asked me to make sure you never get out. She asked me to make sure you rot in here so she never has to look at your face again."
I close my eyes. The glass between us feels like it’s pressing against my soul. He’s lying. He must be. But in this room, in this suit, with the power he holds... his lies are the only truth I have left.
"You’re dead to her, son," he whispers.
"The Arbiter is just a bad memory she’s trying to forget. And I’m going to help her do it."
The glass between us is fogging slightly from his breath. He watches my reaction with the clinical detachment of a man pinning a butterfly to a board.
"She’s glowing, Deimos," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a slimy, intimate register that makes my stomach churn.
"Truly. It’s remarkable what a few nights of real sleep and a sense of safety can do for a woman’s complexion. She looks... radiant. Even in that drab library, the light catches the curve of her throat in a way that is quite distracting."
He pauses, letting the image fester in my mind. He knows exactly which buttons to press. He knows I can still feel the heat of that skin, the pulse under that throat.
"I’ve moved her into the East Wing," he continues, his eyes glittering with a sick kind of pride.
"The silk robes suit her far better than those blood-stained scrubs ever did. She’s finally beginning to understand the value of her own beauty. She carries herself differently now. Like she knows she’s a prize. My prize."
I grip the receiver so hard the plastic groans. My knuckles are white, my vision tunneling until all I can see is the smug, wrinkled corners of his mouth. Every word is a violation. Every syllable is a hand on her that I can’t cut off.
"And Lucy..."
Charles’s expression softens into something even more disturbing.
"The girl has your fire, you know. But none of your temper. She’s so wonderfully pliable. She’s the perfect companion for Madeline. A matched set."
He waits for the growl to leave my throat, but I keep it caged. I won't give him the sound of my pain. Not yet.
"I’ve already begun the vetting process," he says, his tone shifting back to the dry, professional chill of a businessman.
"The interest is... unprecedented. Even for my circles. A woman of Madeline’s intellect and Lucy’s pedigree? It’s the ultimate acquisition."
He taps his manicured finger against the glass, right over where my heart is thundering.
"You have exactly ninety days, son. Three months."
He smiles, a slow, predatory baring of teeth.
