Page 23 of Caged
“Boy, believe me when I say you’ll never see a dime of your trust fund if you keep up this insubordination,” my father growls.
“Jesus Christ, I’ll text him!” I say, exasperated by my father’s whining. Truly, I don’t know what more information X needs. He knows the date, the time, the place. I’ve done everything by the book. Does he need me to book his travel, too? This man is turning out to be a high-maintenance diva.
“See to it that you do,” my father barks, before ending the call. Part of me believes I should have strangled him when I had the chance. Playing the part of a puppet on a string is not something I do well.
Playing the part of God, however, is electrifying.
I’ve always possessed some degree of inherent power, the result of my surname combined with my natural ability to bend others to my will. It’s an innate talent, one that doesn’t require much exertion to achieve my desired outcome. I usually have control over every situation, which is why I was delighted to read that the individual most critical to the Ritual of Sacrifice is the current Sigma president.
Me.
The lost Sigma chapters were enlightening, to say the least. X is lucky to be in the room. Now I understand what my father meant last summer when he told me X‘knows about me and my unique position.’Not only am I president of Sigma’s Dornell chapter, but by way of my grandfather’s ring that functions asboth a key and a brand, I can open the hidden Sacrifice Room, and who knows if every Sigma house has one of these?
Hell, I am likely the one and only person in the nation right now who has access to and canopena Sacrifice Room, is the current residing president and therefore able to conduct the Ritual, and, the most important piece of all, has no moral qualms with doing so. If it worked for my grandfather, it can work for me, and I’d say time is of the essence as it seems whatever good fortune my grandfather earned from participating in these Rituals has run out.
Perhaps my favorite discovery in the Sacrifice Room was the masks. There are additional items we will need to procure, but the masks cannot be replicated. Pussy loves a secret society of mask-wearing elites. I won’t be surprised if we end up with a waitlist.
I can’t wait for Monroe to see me in my mask. It is by far the most sinister. But seeing Monroe in her mask… my dick twitches just thinking about her wearing nothing but the black leather puppy mask I had custom-made. To think I had her mask commissioned months ago, before I realized I would have a mask to wear as well. Some might call it a coincidence, but I call it destiny.
Disappointment drawls a scowl to my lips. My phone sits idle in my car’s cupholder, waiting for Monroe to text me back. I let the first few weeks slide. Both of us were busy with rush and new pledge initiation. On top of that, I had a list of other priorities. Now that the full Sigma brotherhood, including all incoming pledges, have been briefed about Sigma Little Sisters, preparations are in motion. I underestimated the feral ruthlessness of the current Sigma members, having assumed there would be some pushback to the idea of resurrecting a tradition that, at its core, revolves around the degradation ofwomen, but I was pleasantly wrong. I heard one Sigma brother describe it as sexual liberation, and you know what? He’s right.
Speaking of liberation, I think to myself, as I tug at my jeans,where the fuck is Monroe?
I’ve given her enough leeway. Apparently, the flowers and night we spent together several weeks ago followed by an onslaught of thirsty texts didn’t do the trick. She’s still hesitant, but I have a plan. Clearly, she thinks she can ignore me, and that’s laughably incorrect.
My hands grip the steering wheel, fisting the taught leather.
I. Want. Her.
She was mine before, and she will be mine again.
10
MONROE
Seven Months Prior to Present Day,
Beginning of February, Junior Year,
Dornell University
“Hello?” I answer, but my greeting is cut short by a phone operator who announces, “You have an incoming call from the Federal Correction Institute, Otisville, New York. Do you accept this call?”
“Yes,” I grouse because it’s my fucking mom. Again.
I wait with annoyance as the line pauses, debating if I should hang up.
“Monroe?” My mother’s grating voice rings loud in my ear, and I grimace.
“Mom,” I respond, careful not to emit any emotion. I don’t want to rile her up, and I cannot afford to let this pathetic excuse of a parental figure drain any more of my energy today.
A delicate, icy-cold kiss lands on my nose. The predicted snowfall has begun, and we’re expected to get six inches bymorning. My last class ended ten minutes ago, yet I’m still a mile away from the sorority house.
“How’s my rich daughter?” my mom asks. Words cannot express how much I fucking hate this woman.
“Mom, I’ve told you a thousand times. Grandma Sadie’s house wasn’t worth shit. Proceeds from the sale after the mortgage was paid off will hardly cover my bills for the next few years. Other than what little equity she had in the house, she had no money. No savings. No hidden bars of gold in her basement like you claimed. So, stop asking me to send you fucking money, because I don’t have any.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Monroe. Always have been.”
