He hoped she’d managed to steal a long enough piece.
Only time would tell. Time that was slowly filtering away, the grains of their survival dwindling.
He pictured her lying on the bed, her naked skin dry and dirty. Cracked and bloody in spots. She’d looked malnourished and broken. Completely vulnerable. But ah, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than him?
He thought back to the way she’d fought against the pleasure of his kneading hands. He almost regretted causing her such humiliation. And he knew well that it was a humiliation to submit in such a way to your subjugator. She might as well have called him master with that moan, and she’d obviously known it by the tears that followed, staining her blindfold. But the men watching only understood two things when it came to a rental: violence and degradation. He had to blend if he was going to win. Perhaps, initially, they’d thought his form of manipulation weak, but then, he’d earned her tears, while they had not.
Should it trouble him that manipulation came so easily? Or did it? Because his time spent with Noelle had held truth too. He’d uttered a few chosen words using the accent of his native tongue and then mixed it with a subtle rendition of the other accents that were a result of the various languages he spoke. He hadn’t used the accent of his youth in a long time, though he did move between the others, depending on whom he was conversing with and which aspect of his life. He’d been so many versions of himself and found it easy to slip on each persona. A skill honed over decades. Allowing his original accent to be heard—even briefly, even murmured—had been a small risk, he supposed, but the part of him that was still the boy he’d once been had wanted her to know him. Or at least to hear him.
He’d also given her information about who they were. He’d waited for the flashing light on the wall that would warn him he was broaching subjects that were off limits. He’d only get one chance. But no such warning came. He assumed, though he had no proof, as this was his first game, that if he didn’t heed the warning, he would not be making his flight back home.
They hadn’t stopped him from repeating the story, the one his game sponsor had shared with the Collector, bragging about his past exploits. Perhaps it even amused them. What could one little rabbit do with a tidbit of vague information he’d presented as some tall tale? But certainly they’d recognized themselves as the king and his court that he spoke of and believed him to be giving them a nod of appreciation.
Perhaps the fact that he hadn’t worn a mask gave him leeway. They had him on video now.
Regardless, here he was.
The Collector broke the envelope seal, sliding the paper from within. She’d written the poem he’d asked for, and his smile grew as he read it.
Werewolves have fangs
But they also have pelts
I hate your guts
Go fuck yourself
His gaze moved to the rendering next to it, a poorly drawn sketch of a werewolf, saliva dripping from his fangs and looming over a tiny rabbit in a trap. He looked closer and laughed out loud. Ah, yes, that tiny rabbit held a knife in its paw hidden behind its back. It was hoping to skin that hunter. Somehow. Against all odds.
He laughed again. She was divine.
The Collector went through the steps of logging in, his fingers flying over the keys as the screen within a screen blinked to life. There was Noelle, his little rabbit sitting alone in her cage. The boy was in the room upstairs.
The Collector sighed as he took in the scene in that room where rental contracts played out. He could see that he’d been right about the spindly man with the beak nose. He had wanted to beat those boys who’d pushed him into lockers and called him names. But he’d also very much wanted to fuck them. There he was again, having obviously made the trip once more, his head between the boy’s legs as the boy gritted his teeth and covered his own eyes, in essence blindfolding himself, shutting out what was happening to him in the one way he could. He wondered if Evan was picturing Noelle. If such a bet could have been made, the Collector would have made it, and he believed he’d have won. Evan would experience emotional consequences for that later. If there was a later.
The Collector clicked off that screen, zooming in on Noelle and steepling his fingers as he assessed what they already had in their possession. The things the others had sent them had been consumed. The Collector had sent them treasures to keep. To use. And he’d send them something more. Each item had to follow the rules of the organization that wrote them. But he had his own criteria. Each item had to serve a purpose. And speak to them, as though he himself were there.