Page 95 of The Teras Trials

And I think about his reaction to Thaddeus—my brother with half his insides spilling out of him, how calm Leo was, how nonchalant. What kind of horrors has he seen for that to be nothing to him? Why is he so damn relaxed, even now, even after everything?

I realise very suddenly Leo has never cracked. Not like the rest of us. He’s gotten angry. But he’s never been close to breaking. And I think I was close to breaking before I even set foot here.

“What. . . happened?” I ask.

Leo shakes his head and a beat passes where I believe he’s considering telling me. But then he goes, “I don’t think so, Mr Jones.” He inspects his hands, presses his lips together firmly; the most subtle admission that whatever this memory is hurts him.

“Alright,” I say, and I stop pressing.

What does it matter, the how? They are all clearly dead. And what does it matter, if Leo doesn’t really like me? It is better for me if it is just my body. My mind is too unsure, too brittle.

It is better this way.

So I let him fuck me.

I undo my pants the rest of the way and I stand there in nothing but my underwear and my socks. I shiver—there’s no fireplace in this room, and the cold is creeping in from outside, but then Leo stands, eyes raking over me, and he slips out of his shirt and his own pants and pulls me against him.

And soon we’re both hard, cocks grinding against each other, his pressing into my belly. I run my left hand, porcelain dancing down his spine, and nearly cry. I can’t feel him. It’s not the same.

“Pin me down,” I tell him. “Both hands. Just—pin me down.”

Roughly he yanks my arms high and shoves me onto the bed, toppling after me, crushing me: Leo Shaw is stronger than me by far and I am completely incapable of fighting back. Weakly I shove against him, which only rouses him more. He grunts and pushes me into the mattress. My arms stretch out. It doesn’t matter that I can’t feel with my left hand. I am not being permitted to touch him. I am under his control.

“How should I touch you?” he whispers.

I meet his gaze and smile. “Ruthlessly.”

27

LESSON TWENTY-SEVEN

Bells ring out past dawn like death knells. When I wake, it’s in Leo’s arms. He’s already awake, stroking my hair. It’s so intimate that it’s concerning. I fight the urge to flinch away, but I know when we have sex, it isn’t really about me. I am a body and I am here; that’s all it is. But in the morning before this final trial, I still let myself lie there and feel it. I let myself have the fantasy that this is some man who loves me unconditionally and freely, and that it’s a decade from now, and somehow we are in London without responsibilities. We exist here in peace and safety. We exist in each other’s arms.

But then the bells ring out again and I’m forced to admit how stupid that fantasy is. Gently, I push against his chest to let him know I’m awake. He stops tousling.

We look at each other, squinting through the blackness, and we say nothing in case they’re the wrong words. In silence we dress in our uniforms and I think: God, I hope they don’t bury me in this.

When I open the door Victoria is in the sitting room. She’s curled up in front of a fire she must have made herself. She’s in a fresh uniform by the look of it, and her hair is damp. I assume she wandered in some hours ago to shower and change. And lying here is easier. Her room is haunted like my mind is. It’s at once too empty without Bellamy and full of him.

Victoria stirs as I get close and pushes herself up instantly. The look she gives me is withering, until her eyes drop down to my arm. Porcelain glints in the firelight. She glances away, and I can’t tell if it’s guilt or anger or exhaustion, whether she sees my arm and thinks, “Well deserved, good riddance” or something softer. But her guilt won’t be enough to subsume the anger. I know she won’t ever forgive me.

“I thought you asked to be moved to another room,” I whisper.

“Yes, well,” she says, still not looking at me. “I was given a choice.” I wait for her to speak. She drags out the silence for a long moment. Then, chin raised, “Drike is alone you see. Everyone else in his room died. Drearton said I could pair with him, if I wanted.”

She leaves the real reason unsaid, and it takes me a while, as I muddle through sleep-haze, to understand.

Leo beats me to it. His weight is sudden on the floorboards and they groan as he says, “It’s a group trial.” An emotion tinges the words—it’s not despair, and it’s not fear. I don’t have a name for it, but I hear it coating his words. Something that is confirming Leo’s thesis to him over and over again; reflexive and full of awe.

It says, once more: the only way through this is to be ruthless.

“Yes,” Victoria whispers. She looks away.

A group trial. And Drike is on his own.

My heart tightens. So you’ve doomed him instead of yourself, I do not say. So you’ll damn me for sacrificing one to save many.

Vindication.

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