Page 11 of Ambition

“Last night. How was it?”

My eyes narrow and I think of Von. “I don’t report to you.” And aside from that bit about the Unsaints being above Writhe, I don’t. As awkward as it might seem from the outside, I answer to Mads, Von’s father. I’ve already told him how it went on the drive over here, skipping the more salacious details. He doesn’t want those, and I have no inclination to share them with a pseudo-uncle figure.

Cain looks down his nose at me. “Mads Bentzen is beneath me. You are under him.” He doesn’t connect the dots out loud but I follow along and he adds, “Pretend you do. Report to me, that is. How was it?” he asks again, tone even.

I swallow but refuse to cross my arms or hunch my shoulders and make myself small. I know how men fill up rooms with their ego, even when they’re the smallest fish in the pond. I’ve learned how to mimic their delusions. And perhaps this is a test. I will pass.

“Fine. I now know the layout of Vipera’s compound, that security is very lax past the main gate, and—”

“We already have that. Mapped, in fact. In detail. Including the positions of the guards.”

Frustration climbs up my throat but I force my body to remain relaxed, sure of myself. “And I’m meeting Sancte again tomorrow night.”

“Did you ask questions?”

A test.“No. Not anything overt.”

He nods once, as if this is the right answer. “And what did he ask you?” Again, his tone is emotionless. He implies nothing.

If I consented to non-consent. If he could choke me. What I thought about knife play. Would I call him daddy (no; and he laughed when I said that and moved on).All these things run through my head, but I know that’s not what Cain Bonavich is asking.

Unless he…is.

I scroll through other lines of questioning Theo directed my way. He was very inquisitive but that is how charming, ruthless men are. The more secrets they can form into a sharp knife, the easier to stab you with. “My birthday,” I answer Cain. July 27th. “What sort of training I do. My favorite sport to watch and to play. If I enjoy books, my favorite movie, favorite band.” Breaking Benjamin, yes, even still. “Where I was born, where I grew up.”

“Many of those things he would know already. Did you lie?”

“No,” I counter, feeling defensive. “As you said, he likely already had this information.”

“So, why ask?” He gives away nothing. No indication of how I should answer.

It frustrates me, being unable to read his angle. “To confirm I won’t lie.”

“No.” That’s all he says. Then he stares at me.

I realize I need to try again but my pulse starts to beat faster, and I have to resist the urge to look at the door. To look for Von. I hate that instinct cradled inside of me. But Von would end this line of questioning. He would tell Cain I needed to rest and maybe this time I wouldn’t talk over him. Because I do need it. Rest, I mean. I barely slept last night. Lying next to a lion doesn’t make for peaceful slumber.

“Why don’t you tell me, because obviously you have the answer.” Fuck it. I don’t need Von here. I don’t bother hiding the snark. Maybe Cain is above Mads and therefore me, but it’s not as if I’m doing anything wrong. I did my job. Being interrogated by an Unsaint isn’t part of it.

At least, I don’t think it is. But criminals are unpredictable. They like to spring things on you and see how fast you shoot back.

“I hope you didn’t speak to him like that.” And even though the words from Cain could sound like a warning, I don’t think they are.

It makes me feel bolder. I widen my stance marginally, staring back at him. “And if I did?”

Cain glances at the door, and I resist mimicking the gesture. “He seemed upset.” He changes the subject completely.

My throat feels tight, but I don’t swallow as Cain stares at me once more. I say and do nothing at all. He didn’t ask a question and supplying information is for people untrained in the art of psychological pauses. I read a lot, while Von is off doing the more fun assignments, chopping people to bits or whatever I wish I could do—once, I did something worse, but our parents have handled me with kid-gloves when it comes to violence ever since. But for all that book reading, I know a lot Von doesn’t.

“Until he didn’t,” Cain continues, and I wonder if I misread that brief moment of silence between his statements. Maybe it’s just how he speaks. “And you’ve also got a defense up. The two of you are compartmentalizing. I just can’t tell if it’s from your work or each other. Maybe he doesn’t give a fuck about you at all, and he had an unrelated hard night too.”

Immediately, I want to dispute that. My lips part, ready to tell him he has no fucking idea what me and Von mean to each other. Von is the one who taught me algebra—at least, enough for me to pass in our private high school without suffering through additional tutoring sessions with our pervy teacher; math is the one thing Von knows more than me—and how to hold my breath underwater without using my fingers to plug my nose. Before we were even in school, I taught him all of the oceans and continents and that Africa isn’t a fucking country despite the fact most Westerners seem unable to grasp that it contains over fifty of them. Also the differences between New Zealand and Australia, which I was very proud of understanding at the age of four and truthfully would tell anyone who would listen so maybe that doesn’t make Von special but…he is.

More selectively, we taught each other the language of kissing, although at the time, neither of us were fluent.

And I know from him what it’s like to be loved unconditionally, even when it breaks his heart.

I know that he has seen the worst thing I have ever done, and he cradled me to his chest like I was still precious to him, never minding the blood of another man all over us both.

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