Chapter 3

3

ROBIN

S taggering through the bushes, I try to keep as close to the sand trails as possible since they are lit up by beacons. Over here, the forest is quiet, though quite frankly, I don't know where here is. I lost my way a long time ago.

I barely remember which direction I took after I was told to run. I just did as I was instructed, without even looking back to see if I was being followed.

By Copper Mask.

Is he the one who chose me? And if so, why? Do we know each other? Licking my lips, I try to defend myself from the thoughts that have been haunting me from the day I was summoned toward my altered life. The day I was requested to sign that NDA.

I'm good at that, usually. Good at blocking my feelings, keeping my heart at a respectable distance from everything and everyone.

But right now, I'm not good at blocking out any unwanted thoughts. My brain is in tatters, and my traveling legs can't seem to bring me home.

Je suis perdu. Perhaps quite literally. Lost my way in life. Resentment is my middle name. For everything I can't do, regardless of my passion, for everything they won't let me be, because of the loser I am, and for everything I apparently can't become, despite my determination.

Like becoming part of this fucked up brotherhood.

I think of the rider and his horse. Of the terrified cry of that participant. Olivier . Of B's collected and distant behaviour.

How far would you go to change your destiny?

How far will I go?

I want to remember the details those two men exchanged during my summoning in their office in the South Wing. Nothing stood out, aside from that arguable document that I signed. And now I wonder why I did.

Vengeance. That's why I signed those damn papers. It's what I feel every day when I climb those double-spiral stairs and follow the narrow halls. When I glance at the endless framed photos of posh, stuck-up kids in uniforms who smile dutifully at the camera. It's what I feel when I sit my classes out, only to head out for the library afterwards to spend my entire night in there. When I enter the cafeteria and occupy my usual corner where I sit with the same unnoted group of strangers who hang out on the same spot. They'd rather hang out with my snarky self than be alone. When I avoid looking at that noisy table in the center of Monterrey's existence — the table of the elite of the elite. The super rich. None of us do, it's an unwritten rule. Stay away from them, and if you're lucky, they'll stay away from you. Although…

"And if I'm eliminated, I still get to be fucked by one of the elite. " B's words left a damn hole in my brain that's filling up with a ton of questions.

Fucked?

I'm not getting fucked by no guy, that's for sure. I'm not into guys. Not into girls either, to be honest. Although I've been involved with a few girls before, at the academy. Nothing serious, but a guy needs to experiment a little, right?

The elite.

I think of that table in the cafeteria once more, then lift a listless hand as if swiping the thought away. None of that matters. Not now. All that I need to do now, is find a place where I can lay low, and preferably not hit the ground before I do so.

The sand trail breaks up in two separate directions, and from my spot in the shadows I contemplate my options. I think I came from my left side, though right now, I'm unsure. I'm unsure of everything. Though I refuse to be lost.

Flicking my finger out, I mutter, " Am Stram Gram ." Eenie, meenie, miney moe.

Left. Right.

Tick. Tock.

My ears buzz a little sharper and I wince at the sensation.

"I'll take a left, fuck it." That way I can stay on this side of my hiding spot.

Staggering forward, I keep my balance by clutching my hands to the solid tree trunks before wobbling to the next one. My lips start to feel dry, and my face itches behind silk. I should just take it off, despite that old man's warning.

" Espèce de merde ," I swear, irritated. "Who's he to tell me what to do anyway? Who's anyone to tell me what to do?" Letting go of the tree, I rest my hands against my upper legs, shaking myself a few times. "Enough of this," I decide. Enough of the drugs, of this game, of this psychological mindfuckery. "You can't tell me what to do! " I let out.

It feels so, so good.

Expanding my chest, I take in a deep breath of air.

"You can't tell me what to do!" I rumble a little louder. My knees buck, but my eyes see clearer. Yes, this is helping. Taking in another inhale, I open my mouth wider this time as I cry out the same phrase. And again. And again. I continue until I'm left a shuddering, panting mess. But fuck me, do I feel better. Tears roll down my flushed, covered cheeks. Yeah, much better.

"Sir?"

I flinch at the sudden greeting and my head jumps up, eyes creating a teary, hazy sight. For the shortest of seconds, I wonder if I should hide.

As if he can hear my thoughts, the bodyguard, who slowly approaches me from the sand trail, lifts his hands in defeat. One of them is carrying a bottle of what seems to be water. I lick my lips at the thought. "No need to run away from me, I'm not participating in the games."

I slowly make my way out of the bushes. "Does that mean that it's finished?"

He's one of the bodyguards who awaited me earlier tonight, at the given time and place in the gardens outside. The one who placed the mask in front of my face and tightened it behind in my nape. He seems vaguely familiar, but it's difficult to place him because of our current position in the woods. The bodyguard gives me an apologetic smile. "Not quite. But I've come to bring you some water. You must be thirsty." He holds out the bottle that I eye suspiciously.

"Does everyone get water?"

"No." He shakes it a little in an invitation for me to grab it and I can't help licking my lips at the sight. He's right, I am thirsty. "But you must be thirsty. It hasn't been spiked, I promise."

"Yeah? And what's your promise worth to me? Nothing ."

His smile widens. "He told me you'd be snappy."

Snatching the bottle out of his hand, I glare at him. "Who?"

The one who chose me.

I swallow the thought down altogether with a big sip of water. It feels great.

"You already know who, sir." He watches me take a few more sips, then takes the bottle back into one of his large hands, surprising me as he leans forward. "He's watching you," he murmurs. Then he turns around and walks away. Leaving me there, on that trail, right between two torched beacons, bewildered.

Wait! I imagine shouting after him. Don't you walk away from me, you son of a bitch. Don't you… But he's been swallowed up by the shadows.

I stay like that, just standing there, staring into the void of the forest and vanished silhouettes, for what feels like a long time. My thoughts are accompanied by a steady thrum that creates even more chaos inside my head, making my mind swim.

"I want to go home," my thoughts voice out loud, words coming out slurred. "Where's home? Where the fuck is home?"

I grimace. Guess that drink was spiked after all. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe it's my family catching up with me through my head, accusing me of trying to get into their precious fraternity. Accusing me for being different from them. Accusing me for being into art.

The usual bite stays away. So many years of fighting, and I've grown tired. Or maybe it's just my head…

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all

" Maman ." My mind whispers.

It's been so long.

"I can hear your thoughts from here, you know?"

At the sound of that smooth, teasing voice I spin around so fast that I lose balance and hit the ground on my knees. The sharp sting makes me hiss, sand burning my palms as I reach out to the ground for stability. I look up from below my hair, and fear seizes me when I see who's found me. Who was apparently watching me.

Copper Mask.

"Fuck you," I spit. I try to get up, but my drugged state makes my movements slow and sluggish. Instead of pushing myself onto my feet, I fall back onto my knees with a grunt.

He chortles, as if I've just told him a funny joke. It's nothing but a scratchy, soft sound that is enough for anger to bubble up inside my panting chest. But there's also fear, already, coiled together, pounding lightly at the rhythm of my heart beat.

He still hasn't made a move. Or maybe he has, but my mind is failing me because of the drugs? I can't be sure anymore. "You are here to eliminate me."

Cocking his head to one side, he watches me. I've got to give it to him, his mask is phenomenal. The warm, tan colour intermingles perfectly with the delicate embroidery that has been threaded into the material. It makes both sides of his cheekbones come out perfectly — both the uncovered and the covered part — and brings out the straight lines of his nose. A true work of art.

"I'm here because I chose you." He says.

I let out a snort. "Well, you've got the wrong guy, then."

"Oh, yeah?" Slowly, he drops himself to his knees, his eyes still burning on mine. I swallow, trepidation keeping the consistent thrum in my mind going strong.

"Y — yeah."

I watch him closely, heart jamming in my throat when he starts crawling forward to where I'm still kneeling. Blinking rapidly, I will the earlier tears away and for my sight to clear up. It doesn't though. There's no mistake in his approaching, clambering frame as he closes the distance between us. It only takes him a few movements before I back up, my stomach coiling tight. "Stay the hell away from me." Fuck, even my voice stutters. He must hear it too, because his lips curl up. "I mean it." Clambering up in an attempt to prove my words, I only stumble a little bit this time, before I get back to both feet, swaying heavily.

"It will get worse," Copper Mask murmurs from where he is now gazing up at me. Sitting back on his haunches, he straightens his upper body. His black cloak is casually swept over his shoulders, showing off his developed build and wide chest. The hood is securely wrapped over his head, covering his hair. As I look at him, panic nibbles at my insides. "The disorientation," he explains.

I don't say anything, just continue to stare at him. My thoughts are faltering, riddles and flutters occupying my mind. Who is this guy?

"And then it will get better," his lips tug into a smirk. "Soon now, mon papillon. Soon you'll be mine."

"W — what?" Fuck, my brain needs to do something now. I need to stop this madness. "I'm not available," I blurt. "To be chosen, or to be f — fucked." I hate how my tongue stutters over that one word.

Copper Mask tilts his head back and lets out an obnoxious laugh. Then he returns his gaze at me, his lips still smiling. "Didn't your father teach you to respect your superiors?" He crawls forward, and I jump back, nearly tripping over my own feet, which makes him laugh even louder.

"You're not my superior," I snap, the words once more drumming inside my head. Fuck, he's right. It is getting worse. The outside darkness flickers, and my knees feel wobbly when I turn around and flee.

"Over here, sir!" A bodyguard urges me with a gesturing hand, and I follow him blindly, the vision of Copper Mask on his hands and knees one I don't wish to recall ever. But as I hobble over the sand trail, the memory of that mere sight causes something to tighten in my stomach. Something that has nothing to do with fear.