Huh… that’s the stance of someone who wants to protect the other. Has my brother told Roman what I went through? Does Roman not trust Father? God, Roman might think he is protecting me, but I cannot show weakness around Father. Relying on a man for security is a surefire way to land me in the box for a week. I learnt that the last time Felix stood up for me.
I shift, so I’m not covered by Roman’s body, settling myself at his side.
“Good,” Father nods once, appraising Roman.
His sneer has only grown more sinister with age. His brown hair and eyes used to shine, but now they are dulled. Silver threads through his hair at his temples and along his neck, and at five foot ten he may be taller than me, but Felix outgrew him by the time he was fourteen. He has kept himself in good shape. In fact, most of the founders have. I guess when half your weapon is your body, you have no choice but to keep it honed.
“Fae, darling, please go through the method of execution,” Dr. Fisher demands.
God, he is a slimy prick. I think I hate him more than Father. Once I learned that doctors took an oath to do no harm, my hatred for him only grew. He knows it too. He loves to see me squirm. He told me so during one of my many training sessions with him.
He is smaller than Father, with eyes so dark they almost look black. His hair is now completely silver and his beard is always well groomed. Dr. Fisher stinks of onions. I asked him once why that was. Of course, it didn’t end well for me, so I never asked again. But still, I can’t help wondering how a man who is meant to be clinical and clean reeks of whatever he ate the night before.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Longstaff, Roman’s father, take out an iPad. Roman tenses, but I’m not sure why. I flick a glance at him, but he gently taps my left thigh, as if to tell me to speak the truth.
I’m already regretting not driving with him today. I should have used that time to come up with a story. Instead, I let my issues with Robyn and my sex-addled brain where Roman is concerned, mess up the prep.
Taking a deep breath, I explain everything that happened the night before. How we administered the poison, how long ittook him to succumb, and the procedures the police followed when they arrived. I obviously leave out the part about my near orgasm. The only sound in the room is my voice and the quiet tapping of Mr. Longstaff’s iPad.
“And who supplied the poison?” Mr. Longstaff interjects at the end.
“That would be me, sir,” Roman cuts in smoothly. “I was given freedom to create any new weapons that would be beneficial to The Company. This was one that I had just finished testing.”
“And who gave you this creative freedom?” Father asks.
“Mr. Fernsby, our professor, sir.” Roman shifts ever so slightly. If I wasn’t standing next to him, I would miss it. I wonder what he’s not telling them.
“Hmm, very well,” Father muses.
“Do I not have permission, sir?”
“If Mr. Fernsby believes that you are ready to create weapons, then I am in no position to undermine his authority.”
With that, we move through the rest of the evening. For once, we don’t need an alibi because we already had one. Hundreds of people saw us at the gala, including the police. It’s why we used fake identification. Some roles require us to manipulate CCTV; others, our personas. It all depends on what The Company calls for. After an hour of debrief, it’s time to go, and my heart feels a little lighter knowing I’ll be leaving the crypt soon.
I head towards the door, Roman following close behind, covering my back. We reach the top of the stairs and just as I step into the main hallway, Mr. Longstaff barks.
“Roman. A word.”
Roman stiffens slightly behind me as we pause and turn.
“Alone,” he demands.
Roman’s body coils with tension as he turns back to me. Leaning down, he presses a chaste kiss to my cheek.
“Wait for me at your car,” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost hard to hear.
I dip my chin marginally, but he catches the movement. Storming past me, he opens the first door, a meeting room, and steps inside. His dad rushes to catch up and slams the door behind them.
“Good to see you, Fae. Do not let me down,” Father states, already marching towards the kitchen as Mr. Sullivan follows, squeezing my shoulder tightly as he passes.
God I fucking hate these men touching me.
“I will not, Father,” I say, projecting my voice, knowing he will be mad if he doesn’t hear me.
Speak up, Fae. Demand attention, Fae. Stop being a little mouse, Fae. Stop crying, Fae. Nobody listens to quiet women, Fae.
I smell him before I feel him. I pick up my pace, trying to get down the hallway, but my hair is yanked back and I gasp.