Page 5 of Keeper

One thing is clear. He’s not the man I’m meant for. Creed wouldn’t put me with someone who had to come get me himself, drive his own car. He needs the connection to Chief Harbough too badly to ever give me to someone so low. When I was gifted to Jake, it was an ordeal. Men in pristine suits showed up to St. Andrew’s on Match Day. I was guided to a limousine, given champagne and treated like a queen. Taken by chauffeur to the Provost’s house, where I met the man himself for the first time.

He asked the same question the bastard did. Why did the Keepers want to keep me? He heard it from them, of course, but he likes to be well informed. There aren’t two sides to every story, he’d say, there are three. One version from each party involved, and the truth that lies somewhere in the middle.

So I told him, all the while expecting him to make me prove it just like the bastard did. He didn’t. He listened, he studied my body language, the way my lips moved when I spoke. The delicate way I held my champagne glass, long empty from the ride but no one took it from me. He scrutinized me, judged me without ever laying a hand on me, and then he sent me with his servants and had me prepped.

They washed my hair, did my makeup, styled my outfit. Every little detail was laid out and taken care of, and once I was deemed fit, I was chauffeured once again to the house of Jacob Hart. The very same house he now lies in, spent and cold and decomposing on the hardwood he tried so hard to protect.

I wonder how long he’ll be left there before someone comes to clean up. Hours? Days? Weeks? He didn’t have the type of friends who hung out on weekends, kept in touch throughout the week. He had the type of friends he only bothered when he needed a favor or could offer a service. The kind of friends who would’ve copped a prison sentence to save him, but didn’t bother learning his birthday, his future wife’s name.

They won’t look for him.

They won’t miss him.

A whole life spent living online, in the dark recesses of the internet. Scheming, plotting, earning, losing, building, destroying. A whole life spent online when his real life, the one that should’ve mattered, decayed around him.

And now he’s dead and no one will miss him.

Now he’s dead and I’m stolen, paralyzed in the backseat of some nondescript black sedan, staring into the rearview mirror, staring at the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“What is your name?” I ask again, for what feels like the hundredth time. “I keep calling you Bastard in my head, but that doesn’t feel right. The pretense is over, so I don’t thinkbabycuts it anymore either. What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t feel right?” he repeats with a chuckle. “I don’t think anyone else would agree there.” Clenching the steering wheel tighter, he meets my gaze in the mirror and finally answers. “It’s Draven.”

Draven. It’s an interesting name, something unique, but not one I’ve heard before. I don’t know everyone in the Provost’s world by any means, but I know the major players. The arms dealers, the pimps, the politicians and drug lords. I’ve only met a handful, but I’ve heard their names. We’ve all heard their names over and over again, whispered in the halls of St. Andrew’s. Some of the submissives spoke about them with reverence, with hope. Like being placed with one of them was the best thing they could ever hope for. And the others, the smarter ones, realized what a dangerous little game that would become. If you disappoint a pimp, he’ll beat you. If you fail to please an arms dealer, they’ll likely never find your body. The politicians aren’t so bad because they’re deeper in the spotlight, but still. One little scandal will put an end to your career — and yes, maybe even your life — for good.

So those names are clear in my head, and I don’t recognize his.

“Hmm. And what exactly did Jake do to upset Creed this badly?”

“That’s above my pay grade, Sullivan. I’m just the bastard errand boy that was told to go retrieve Alexander Creed’s pretty new wife. You’ve heard of him right?” His eyes flick to mine again. “The Provost’s son.”

No, I haven’t. I wasn’t aware the Provost had children, though I suppose that information is abovemypay grade.

Still, I’ve been trained never to show ignorance.

“Of course I have. How do you think he’ll feel when he finds out you tricked me into blowing you?”

“Thought that was our little secret,” he replies with a wink. “I suppose I can’t stop you from telling him though, so I guess we’ll see.”

He doesn’t sound worried at all, which makes me curious. Is Alexander Creed not well known because he’s a pussy, not to be feared? Or is Draven just smart enough to know that keeping this information to myself for now will benefit me more?

There’s something about him that makes me think it’s the latter. He may be an errand boy, but he’s sharp, like the tip of a fresh blade. It’ll be a clean cut if he strikes, but even clean cuts make messes when they bleed.

“How high of a dose did you give me? I think I’m starting to feel my toes again.”

“Not that high. Once we get on the property, you won’t be going anywhere so it doesn’t matter much if you can move your toes.” We drive in silence a little more before he speaks again. “Are you going to miss Jake?”

The question catches me by surprise. What an odd thing for a murderer to ask, especially since it can’t be undone. “I’ll miss him in the way I’d miss clocks if they disappeared. I don’t love them, I’m... indifferent toward them, they’re just clocks, but I’d miss the certainty that comes with always knowing what time it is. I knew what to expect with Jake. I always knew how to act, what to say, what to wear, what he needed. I knew the ways he’d hurt me, the ways he’d try and fail to show me love. Certainty, that’s what I’ll miss. But I’ll find it again. I always do. People told time before clocks.”

“Those words were as pretty as you.” He takes a left turn I recognize, and I realize just how close we are to our destination. “You’ll be indifferent toward Alexander too.”

“What’s he like?” I ask quickly, knowing my time is almost up. “Alexander. Is he anything like his father?”

“He wants to be, but nah. He’s something else entirely. You’ll like him because he’ll probably never be around. Almost like freedom, right?”

That’s not like freedom at all unless he decides not to keep me on a leash. I guess I’ll find out.

As the Provost’s sprawling mansion comes into view, I clench and unclench my fists to get the feeling back. It’s not the first time I’ve been subjected to Sway, though I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the way it robs you of normalcy. When you have full autonomy, not being able to scratch your nose or cross your ankles becomes jarring, pulls you out of your body.

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