Page 88 of Crush

I shake my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I’m one hundred percent sure of what he’s referring to, but that weapon is for my use. Not his. No way will I give him evidence I worked so hard for. That I own.

The thought of him seeing Ember naked, of her spreading her legs while splayed out on top of a car…

Father hisses in a breath. He flicks his hand behind me. The next thing I know, my cloak’s ripped off, and I’m being restrained at the arms as another red cloak comes to my front and rips my shirt open.

Buttons scatter across the old stone floor, some members stepping back as if a button hitting them would mean they’re the next target.

“Take his shirt off entirely.”

My father’s command is met with more vigor, hands yanking the fabric down my arms and sticking at my wrists. Growling, I fight, pushing two of the goons off, but they’re fast replaced by two more.

“If he’s such a problem for the men I trust as the muscle of the Nobles,” my father says dryly to the viscounts, “then, by all means, have the new recruits restrain him.”

The eager first years have no problem pushing to the front and helping to hold me down. Spitting fury now, I lurch, kick, punch, fucking bite my way out of their hold, but it’s like I’m being descended on by starving scabbard beetles, and perhaps they are, after the shit they’re forced to endure for months.

I kick one of them in the nuts. He yelps and falls back, but another takes his place.

There’s no way out of this. Either I give the flash drive over or get my father’s circle jerk over with.

I choose the latter, going limp in their arms.

“Good boy.” My father parts the hungry crowd around my body, likely retreating into a safe zone until they get me under control. He knows, if he were close enough, I would’ve latched my teeth onto his throat, refusing to let up until I digested a good chunk of him.

“Bring him to his knees.”

The two red cloaks remaining at my arms comply, forcing me to my knees by kicking out the backs of them. I fall on my kneecaps with a grunt, pleased to see splotches of blood hitting the ground that aren’t coming from me.

“Expose his back to me. Yes.” My father’s footsteps sound in my ears, and I lift my head, meeting his eye until he stops behind me, and I can’t extend my neck any further. In my periphery, I notice a length of black extending from his hand and sweeping the floor with a foreboding whisper.

“Five lashes for refusing to answer me the first time I asked,” he says. “After that, if you still refuse, I will give five more. And five after that.”

The boys who were so hyped to restrain me retreat into the crowd in hushed murmurs. The seniors and veterans don’t even twitch. I picture them watching me from under their hoods, their eyes glittering with the thought of witnessing such a show. The prince being whipped by his king.

Yeah, and I’m the one with the twisted fetish.

“One last chance, boy. Where’s the tape of you and the illegitimate Weatherby?” Father asks.

I shake my head, staring forward, finding the one friendly face in the crowd. Jaxon lifts his head until the lower half of his face is exposed, his mouth in a grim line. The whites of his eyes shine from within the shadows as if to say, Stay strong. I’ll bear this pain with you.

My true brother, no blood, all loyalty.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t have what you’re looking for.”

“Mm. Pity.” Father’s not regretful at all.

The first lash comes sharp, a slice of pain that bursts my skin open, with hot pinpricks of blood beading underneath.

My muscles bunch as I take the hit, clamping my teeth shut and refusing to let them move from that position. The last time I did, I almost bit off my tongue.

A second lash comes soon after the first. The viscounts keep their hold on my arms as I lurch forward.

By the third lash, I’m picturing Father’s face, twisted pleasure curving at his lips, his eyes brightened to the level of insanity as he gets free rein to beat his son.

At the fourth lash, spots collect in my vision, multiplying to concerning levels.

“Are you sure, boy?” My father’s question is a yell, lit with an ecstatic flourish. “Where is it?”