The master suite of the Armitage estate was a quiet, high-ceilinged sanctuary, where the only sound was the rhythmic tick of a clock and the soft rustle of expensive linens. Arm lay propped against the pillows, his face a masterpiece of blank, wide-eyed innocence. Behind that mask, his mind was a hyper-active command center, processing every word Mild said with the predatory focus of a man who had never forgotten a single second of their history.
Mild sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers idly tracing the patterns on the quilt. He looked at Arm—the man he thought was a hollow shell—and felt a wave of nostalgic grief.
"Do you remember what we talked about, Arm?" Mild asked softly, his voice a gentle caress. "Two months ago, in that tiny wooden shack in the highlands? We finally talked about St. Jude's. We talked about the Rolex, and the punishment, and the way you used to look at me."
