Page 45 of The Mourning Throne
“Simon says, put it on,” Morgan said, arms folded over his chest.
Ollie eyed the bag like it had teeth. He pulled it closer, peeked inside—and there it was. The look Lex had been waiting for. Wide-eyed, flushed horror.
And then came the denial.
“I… I can’t. It—it doesn’t even look big enough to fit me!”
“The size should be fine,” Morgan said dryly. “Do it.”
“I…” Ollie pulled his hands from the bag and folded them tight across his chest, like that could hide him.
Morgan left the room.
Lex perked up. “Excuse you, where the fu—”
But Morgan was already back—with the knife.
“New game,” Morgan said, calm as ever. He pointed the blade at Ollie. “Simon says, tell me why. Would you like to know the rules, or shall we dive right in?”
Lex couldn’t get out his phone fast enough, couldn’t navigate to his camera fast enough. He didn’t even notice Ollie was looking athim—not Morgan—until he was framing the shot.
“Ask for rules, Ollie,” Lex said, peering around the phone to meet his eyes. “Always.”
Ollie nodded—once.
“Verbally.” Morgan’s voice slipped into that dead-calm tone that always made Lex’s stomach flip.
“Rules, please…”
“Excellent. You’re going to take off your clothes. I tell you the pace, you listen. Then you’ll put on whatever is in the bag. I ask questions, you answer. Very little thinking is involved. This shouldn't be too difficult.”
Ollie’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “And if I don’t..?”
“Then I cut off your clothes, and I may forget what’s fabric and what’s skin.”
Lex grinned. Watching the wheels turn in Ollie’s head was more fun than he’d expected. The way he kept darting glances—Morgan, bag, Lex, back to the bag—as if he couldn’t decide whether getting stabbed wasreallyworse than dressing up.
What the hell was there to think about? Morgan was practically being nice.
The shit Lex had circling in his mind was way,waydarker.
But Ollie moved. Hesitant fingers undid the first button, then the next.
Morgan nodded. Lowered the knife.
“Simon says slower. I didn’t say you could rush.”
Ollie flushed but obeyed. The shirt came off at a crawl—seven minutes according to Lex’s screen. Seven minutes of dead air and trembling hands.
“Simon says, tell me why you’re bruised.”
A tear slid down Ollie’s cheek. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t—”
“Not an answer. Again.”
“Because—” Another look at Lex, this one more pleading than searching. Lex didn’t blink. Didn’t offer shit. Let Ollie figure it out.
“Because I didn’t beg loud enough? Is that it?”
