Page 33 of The Mourning Throne

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Morgan hit him.

Not like some bar fight. Not messy or emotional.

Apunch. Brutal. Clinical. Right into his ribs.

Lex clenched his teeth, the weird, little laugh coming out of nowhere.

That’s going to leave a mark in the morning.

Ollie made a sound like he’d come unzipped—half cough, half cry—curling over, legs jerking like his nerves misfired.

“You don’t try,” Morgan said. “You do what’s asked.”

Morgan hit him.

Again.

And again.

Thesound?

Holyshit.

That sick, wet slap of raw meat on tile.Fuck.

He forgot how quiet Morgan got when he was focused.

Ollie gasped, eyes wide and wet and nowhere near present. His breath came all wrong. Shallow. High. Fast.

Howhe was still fucking awake? No clue.

Morgan leaned closer. One hand in the sheet, twisting like he was wringing out a dishrag.

“Simon says,” Morgan whispered. “Beg.”

Ollie made a noise. Maybe a word. Maybe just static.

“Louder.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—”

“That’s not what I asked for.”

Morgan’s fingers dug into something soft. Already tender.

“Beg.”

“Please,” Ollie gasped. “Please, I’ll do better, I—I’ll try—”

“Louder.”

More crying. Not cute, teary-eyed stuff. The kind that clogged his throat and made everything too slippery to speak. Lexzoomed in on his jaw. The way it shook. The way his mouth tried to work faster than the sounds could keep up.

“Please,” Ollie sobbed. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do whatever you want, please, I can do better, I swear—”

“Louder.”

And then—

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