Kipton nodded his head toward the circular room. “I believe it’s your turn.”
A dark-haired man who looked to be about Lincoln’s age looked up from his place at the table. “Name,” he said simply. His voice was harsh as his gaze ran over me from head to toe.
I flipped him the bird.
Kipton walked to the center of the room, stopping right behind me. He brought his arm around to the front of my body, placing a blade just below my collarbone. “I would hate to make this messy. Give them your name.”
“Grab a mop, asshole, because I’m not giving them shit.”
He pressed down on the blade, splitting my skin open and slicing a trail down my chest, over my breast, stopping just above my nipple. A river of blood trickled down my flesh and stained the pure white robe. My eyes watered at the white-hot agony that sparked through my entire body.
“Should I keep going?”
“No! Stop. Jesus. It’s Lyric. My name is Lyric Matthews.”
The man on the end stood up. He looked like old Hollywood with his dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features. James Dean looks with Cary Grant style. His plush mouth twisted in a grin. “This one’s mine.”
Kipton wiped the bloody blade off on the leg of his pants and smiled. “Lyric Matthews, meet Grey Van Doren. He owns you now.”
THE END