Page 82 of The Mourning Throne
It wasn’t the phrase. Not exactly.
It was the timing.
Lex gave praise like breadcrumbs—placed with care, spaced just far enough apart to make the subject crawl for them. The sweetness wasn’t earned. It wasn’t genuine.
It was strategic.
One more thing Lex had—somehow—silently picked up.
And Ollie, like a child too hungry to remember what pride tasted like, began to move.
He uncurled himself from the strange, half-fetal position he’d stayed in, hand reaching through the bars. His wrist stuck, and he sucked in air through his teeth.
But his fingers still stretched toward the food.
Lex kept still as Ollie pulled the first bite of lamb through the bars. Didn’t soften when he whimpered, or when his teeth bit through his lip hard enough to draw blood. Lex just reached forward and brushed Ollie’s hair behind his ear.
“There we go,” Lex whispered. “Good boy.”
Morgan closed his eyes.
He couldn’t watch that part—not because he didn’t want to.
Because he wanted totoo much.
When he opened them again, Lex was humming the same thing. Low, tuneless. A lullaby, maybe. Or something from the radio Lex had half-heard once. The melody didn’t matter. The effect did.
Ollie ate like a starving animal.
Fast. Aggressive. As if the food might vanish if he blinked.
No care given to the mess of orange under his fingernails.
Lex didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat.
He just wiped Ollie’s chin with a napkin after each bite. Murmured nonsense.
“You’re safe now.”
“You’re okay.”
“You’re doing so well.”
It was all a lie.
And Morgan couldn’t stop watching.
There was no hesitation in Lex’s movements. No flicker of guilt or second thoughts. Just clean lines and soft commands.
Lex had taken something horrific—ritual humiliation, dismantling of self—and made it crisp and clean. Elegant in a way Morgan had never got to witness in person.
When the tears started, Lex didn’t scold. He just whispered, “Don’t cry. You’ll choke.”
And Ollie, red-faced and shaking, nodded like that made sense. Like Lex was trying to help.
Morgan breathed in deep. Let the glass of bourbon rest on his thigh.
The air smelled like meat and wine. Sweat and rot.
