Succession (26 page)

“Can I get a statement from you first?” the reporter asks, jabbing his microphone toward Cash.

He smacks it away with a scowl. “Only if you can be civil about it.”

The reporter hands it over, flushing. “I’d like to know how this fits in with your overthrow of the Demoted system. Your research has gotten a lot of abolitionist attention, how do you think everyone will respond to this harsh display?”

“I have never been an abolitionist. This correction is perfectly in line with my business. My research focuses on effective training. Most training occurs at the re-education centers; additional training occurs throughout the life of a slave.”

He hands the microphone back, and turns. “I’ll begin now.”

Chapter 22
Consequences

It’s more a warning for Sy than anything else. I see Sy tense for half a second, then he relaxes.

Cash brings the buckle end of the belt down, leaving a wide red welt where the leather strikes and a deep purple mark where the buckle connects. I know the damage it can do.

Sy doesn’t respond, he just lies there.

Cash is quick about it. In the span of a few minutes, he’s covered every inch of Sy’s back, ass, and thighs with angry-looking marks. He’s methodical, placing one above the other, avoiding organs and not coming too close to his head. I realize why he wanted him lying on the ground; Cash isn’t much of one for humiliation, he’s making sure that the weapon he uses won’t wrap around and do even more damage.

On the first pass, the buckle caused red spots to well up under Sy’s skin, but the second pass draws blood, tearing at flesh. I’ve felt it on my own skin, the bite of flying metal. Cash has beaten me before, but never like this. He gave me the punishment that one would expect for a spoiled pleasure slave, but he’s giving Sy the punishment meant for a working slave. Sy won’t suffer a reduction in value for having a few more marks on him.

Sy is starting to breathe more heavily, his body moving up and down as he gasps in air. He’s silent, except for the air whistling into his lungs and the sharp exhale every time he’s hit. He doesn’t move or cry out, even when Cash brings the belt between his legs, striking his inner thighs. He spreads his legs further apart, giving our master free access to hurt him.

It’s me who cries for him. I have to watch, not because I was ordered to, but because I owe it to Sy. I caused this; I deserve to watch it, no matter how ashamed and helpless it makes me feel.

It seems like an eternity before Cash finishes, and by the time he does, Sy has blood running down his sides. I want to run to him, comfort him, but I’ve been ordered to stay.

Cash turns to the reporter. “As promised, you may assist.”

He presses the buckle end of the belt into the reporter’s hand, smearing his palm with Sy’s blood. “You use it this way, and you avoid hitting him anywhere that I haven’t hit already,” he warns, like the reporter is completely stupid.

“How many?” the reporter asks, scowling.

“Until you’re tired or I tell you to stop,” Cash replies. “I won’t have him damaged.”

The reporter nods, shrugging himself away from Cash.

He raises the belt and lets it fly. I know it must hurt, burning against the already abraded skin. The spots of blood grow larger with the continued abuse. Cash watches, looking cold and hard as an executioner.

In that moment I hate him because he’s not willing to stop any of this. He’s not just beating Sy, he’s letting someone else do it. I don’t understand how he can do it. In spite of all the kind things he’s done for me, all the wonderful nights we’ve spent together, I hate him. At that moment, he is slavery, and everything it represents, and I want to destroy it.

I’m sobbing, and I don’t care that at least one of the cameras are pointed at me. Let them see it. Someone should cry for him.

I hear Cash saying “that’s enough,” above my head, and the sickening thud of lashes stops. The crowd begins to murmur again, discussing the events. A man has been beaten to a bloody pulp in front of them and they are comparing who got the better footage, whose station will air it first. I want to be sick, and the feeling doesn’t go away when I feel Cash’s hand on my shoulder.

I jerk away, glaring at him. He pulls back in surprise, but quickly masks his expression. We are still in the public eye, after all.

“Help him get dressed,” he orders, his voice strained.

I stumble to my feet, blinded by tears and anger, and I only grow more furious when Cash places his hand on my hip, steadying me. I wrench away and lurch toward Sy, who is still lying in the ground, panting.

By the time I reach Sy, he’s moved to his knees, gritting his teeth against the pain. He looks all right, a little tired, maybe, like he has been doing heavy lifting. He rises to his feet slowly, a dignified expression on his face in odd contrast to the dirt and blood that covers him. He doesn’t bother to brush himself off; he just holds his hand out for his clothes.

I give him his pants, having already tucked his boxers into my pocket. The less he has to put on, the faster everything will be over. I planned it this way, and I hope he understands. Sy nods approvingly at me and steps into them, clenching his jaw as he pulls the fabric over his skin. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t look at anything, he just stares off into space.

As he does, I ready his shirt, making sure it is right-side out and holding it out for him to put his arms into. His shoulders took many lashes, and I know it must hurt to move them. I dress him like the servant I am, coming in front of him to help him button it.

My hands are shaking too badly to manage a fine motor task like buttons, and as I fail to match up the second one, Sy’s hands cover mine.

“I’ll be fine, pretty boy,” he whispers, his own fingers strong and sure and steady. “Go get me my boots.”

I nod, unable to speak, and I kneel to help him. I manage to tie the laces; at least I can do this. I stay on my knees, hoping to compose myself. I hear Cash arranging for an additional security escort to our hov-car. I should feel grateful for the care he’s taking, but I don’t. If he had gotten the extra security in the first place, none of this would have happened.

It’s Sy that gets me to my feet, touching my shoulder in the signal that masters use for their slaves to get them to rise. The fact that it works says something about him, or about me, but I don’t dwell on it. I obey, too confused and angry to do much else, and when he keeps himself close to protect me further, I let him.

Sascha, Syrus, and I walk silently to the hov-car. The security is keeping the crowd away, and the intensity of the scene everyone just witnessed hangs heavily. I can tell that I’ve pleased the media; it wasn’t my intention, but at least we haven’t ruined everything.

We reach the hov-car, and I don’t look at either of the men I own before giving the orders.

“Sascha, up front. Syrus, I want you in the back seat; lie on your stomach. I won’t have blood all over my seats.”

The few reporters that have tailed us snicker at that comment, and I feel the rage building inside of me. Their intrusive attitudes have caused this, disrupting my life and harming my slave. I catch Sascha’s glare as he gets into the front seat, slamming the door and wrapping his arms around his legs. I shut the door behind Sy as he lies on the back seat, his legs bent back up and curled out of the way of the door. He’s silent and obviously in pain. It can’t be helped.

I take off from the parking garage with a flourish of speed, zooming past the city shops with boarded-up windows, leftover from the riots. I hate the destruction, the reminders of the damage I have caused, and I hate that half the streets have been shut down to control traffic. I start to feel a little better once I’m outside the boundaries of the city, and I increase my speed for a few miles, despite the limits. I can afford the speeding tickets, I need to vent at least some of the anger I’m feeling. I would rather drive through the crowd of reporters, but I would prefer to avoid prison again.

“Syrus, are you all right?” I ask, dropping my speed to something slightly more reasonable as I glance into the rearview mirror to look at him.

“Yes, master,” Sy replies, his voice still strained. “I’ll be fine.”

“I mean, have I hurt you seriously?” I clarify. “I can take you to a doctor.”

“No, master,” Sy answers quickly, his tone a little lighter. “I guess your training paid off. It hurts like hell, but it’s clean. Nothing broken, no organs were hit. Thank you.”

I’m relieved. I didn’t think I did any real damage, but I needed to make sure. Sascha pouts for days if I dare to raise my voice to him; Syrus is thanking me for making him bleed. “Glad to hear.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Sascha is staring out the window; he hasn’t looked at me since we left. I can’t tell if he’s angry or ashamed of himself, or if he just needs time to process what happened. I’m annoyed with him for causing a scene, but I can’t really blame him. If he hadn’t lost his temper with the reporters, I would have. I was being hounded just as much as my slaves were, and the only thing that kept me from throwing punches on my own was my desire to maintain my image. Besides, I wouldn’t have had Syrus to intervene on my behalf. It’s unfortunate that the penalty fell on him when he was the only one behaving appropriately.

“Sy, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I remind him. “You know I had to—”

“I know,” Sy cuts me off. “I knew when I did it. You went easier on me than most would. Thank you.”

I nod, but I don’t say anything. Anything I can think of to say sounds trite.

When we arrive at home, Sascha gets out of the car immediately, slamming the door behind him. He stands to the side, glaring at me like I’ve done something horrible. I ignore him, going to help Sy out of the car.

Sascha gets there before I do, and the icy look he gives me is enough to make me back off. Sy notices; he gives Sascha a curious expression, but Sascha just scowls and helps him toward the house, looking at me expectantly until I open the door.

He’s the one who caused this, and he’s acting like I did something wrong.

I wait until we get inside, door shut and safe, to say anything.

“Sascha, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like I dismembered him!” I snap. I feel guilty enough for doing what I had to do; I can’t deal with this attitude on top of it.

I don’t think I’m trying to pick a fight, but when Sascha turns his back on me and storms down the hallway, I want one. I can push back against defiance; outright dismissal is something I didn’t expect.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” I command, stomping after him.

I have the dignity not to chase him, but Sascha breaks into a run, darting down the hall and slamming the door to his bedroom before I’m even halfway there. I keep going, idle thoughts of hurting him flashing through my mind. He has no right.

“Let him go,” Sy requests, his voice calm but still booming through the house. “Cash. He’s upset. Let him go. Please.”

I stop. Sascha’s pleas would only serve to incite me further, but the request from Sy gives me pause. He’s never asked for anything and a part of me feels like I owe him something. If this is his request, I would be a monster to deny it. His goal this whole time was keeping Sascha safe.

I huff, walking back down the hall.

“Fine,” I mutter, although I’m not happy about it.

“He knows he messed up,” Sy reminds me. “Just give him some time to calm down.”

I nod, still not pleased about the situation. “He better goddamned straighten up,” I mutter, trying to hold on to at least some of the illusion that I am the master in this house.

Sy doesn’t reply, he just waits. It’s hard to stay angry when he’s so calm. He’s the one who deserves to be angry. I failed to arrange for adequate protection. Sascha made an understandable mistake. I let Sy take the fall for it. Sy should be furious at us both, at least annoyed, but he’s not. I can’t be angry at him, and if the only reward he wants is for me to put up with Sascha’s bullshit, I owe it to him to at least try.

“Can I help clean you up?” I offer. It needs to be done, and it will give me something active to take my mind off of the mess.

“I’d appreciate that,” Sy replies.

We make our way to his bedroom, where he lays out a towel on the bed before stripping and lying down on it. The wounds have almost all stopped bleeding; just a few spots remain damp where the metal bit in too hard. I gather a few washcloths, some water, and some disinfectant and sit next to him on the bed. He’s silent as I clean out the wounds; the only way I can tell that I’m hurting him is the way the muscles in his back tense.

“Thank you for what you did today,” I tell him. “I know what you did for Sascha, what he was about to do. You may very well have saved his life.”

I see Sy nod.

“I know,” he says. “I was happy to do it. He’s been through a lot.”

“He should be here, now,” I mutter, still trying to decide how to deal with Sascha’s behavior, both at the rally and once we got home. I never thought I’d be tempted to punish him again, but I never thought I’d be so scared of losing him. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”