Chapter Text
Captain Fitzjames says nothing of the night before at breakfast nor in the days that follow, leaving John to speculate for himself what happened. He wracks his memory but cannot recall much. He frets. He knows they discussed Crozier, but such a topic could not have sustained them for more than a few minutes. When had they gone to his cabin? Why had they gone to his cabin? What had Bridgens’s warning meant? Had Fitzjames spent the night beside him? Surely not. What had John said? What had they done?
The uncertainty frightens John even more than what he vividly remembers from the night he came aboard Erebus. He vows to never drink again. He begs God for forgiveness, though reasonably sure it cannot be granted when he doesn’t know how he has transgressed. John prays for clarity; endeavors to sacrifice his meager comforts as penance; and resolves not to concern himself any further with the captain, his tendencies, or his looks—which have taken on a thoughtful air when they do not burn with unchecked desire or sparkle with satisfaction.
When sinful thoughts arise—and they often coincide with the looks—John rebukes them. Pinching and scraping at his inner wrists savagely. His pale forearms are disfigured into an expanse of seeping wounds. Like the icy landscape around them were it speckled with John’s blood. The abraded skin chafes against his sleeves, and soon he can banish the thoughts with no more than a clenched fist or a fingertip pressed to his wrist. To evade the dreams, he does not sleep. He sits upright at his desk. Only after he has fallen out of his seat five times does he allow himself to lie down and rest.
The scent of violets lingers in his cabin, tormenting him. It no longer recalls his mother, his innocence. Only the depravity, the lowest moments of his life. The strength of it ebbs and flows, seemingly at random. Each time he believes himself free of it, it swells, and John must flee up to the deck to take heaving gasps of frozen air until his lungs protest, his lips crack, and his nose goes numb.
Even with these ablutions, John does not feel fit to be seen by anyone and ventures—after his months of lonely misery—to remain ignored. He keeps away from the wardroom, absenting himself from any meal Fitzjames does not attend (which is never less than one per day and is oftener two). No one appears to notice. Not the bloodied sleeves nor the haggard, drawn look on his face. In all likelihood because none but Fitzjames look at him, and the captain is much of the time on Terror. Coordinating with Edward, John imagines—bitter even as he is thankful for the respite.
John knows he cannot avoid Fitzjames forever, but he is certain when the next temptation strikes, he will resist. And what’s more, John will be reasonable and rational and perhaps set Fitzjames back on the right course. Not that John would presume, but it’s the closest to a reassuring idea he can muster.
When a thought is spared for John, Fitzjames sets him to work taking inventory. Every inch of Erebus is to be surveyed, every dark corner emptied, every creaking pallet or barrel broken open and examined, and all the materials therein—and their potential—accounted for by John. Unless the captain plans to tear up the deck or carry the mast with them, there’s very little above board to evaluate, and apart from the men’s private chests and stores—into which John is loath to pry without explicit orders—the forecastle is similarly devoid of attraction. Dr. Stanely needs to do little more than glance at John to keep him from the sickbay, and John would sooner renounce his service and stand trial for abandoning his post than beg entry into his fellow officers' cabins or hazard the masters’ workrooms while crowded with laboring men. And so, John begins where he can be of most use: down in the deserted stretches of the orlop and the hold. It’s freezing work. Both mind and finger numbing. He whiles away hours in a daze—squinting in the dark at manifests scrawled in fading ink and kicking apart rotting wood and disintegrating rope. So much for the unconquerable might of the Royal Navy. Time will make dust of us all, even our ships.
John is rarely disturbed, though from time to time a man ventures down to shift around in his neatly arranged rows of supplies without so much as a by-your-leave-sir. The Erebites don’t seem to regard John as an officer at all—not even the Erebites who once took orders from him on Terror. John is not stewing on this particularly galling reality when Fitzjames descends the ladder.
It's the first time the captain has come to monitor John’s progress (glacially slow). Indeed, it’s the first time he and John have been alone together since the morning after…whatever it was that transpired. As is his custom, Fitzjames stands far too close—looming over John until he seems to crowd the very air from the room. John’s heart races; his mind plunges into depraved reaches. He flexes his wrists, hungry for the security of pain.
Fitzjames scrutinizes John without speaking a word, then takes John’s bare hands in his own—safely ensconced in gloves—and tsks. He rubs warmth back into the stiffened, painful fingers. John curses himself and resists the urge to pull away. He’d removed his gloves to handle a tightly folded bolt of sailcloth that had turned out to be intact despite the thin rats he’d sent scurrying into the dark. John had set the gloves down and hadn’t been able to locate them by the dim light of his lantern. He’d been looking for a long time when Fitzjames arrived; his mind—grown pathetically sluggish of late—creeps all the more slowly in the frigid hold.
“You’ll lose fingers being so reckless.” Fitzjames sounds unimpressed.
“It’s not a habit of mine, sir.” This answer seems to amuse Fitzjames. He tugs John’s hands up to his face and squints at them in the gloom.
“You’ll go to Dr. Stanley and have him ensure you’ve not done yourself any damage.”
John grumbles an acquiescence. His sleeves are threatening to slide up and expose his injured wrists. He takes Fitzjames’s silence as leave to pull away and steps back, but the man does not relinquish his hold. Unbalanced, John half stumbles, knocking the lantern at his feet over and dousing the wick. They’re plunged into darkness. John, disgusted by his own idiocy, stammers out an apology. Fitzjames is still holding on to him by both hands; he twines their fingers together—gloved between naked ones—and John’s mouth goes dry.
“My, my, my, Mr. Irving! I see now how you’ve contrived to bring me here into the dark and quiet. Why, no one should hear us even if we shouted…”
John cannot actually see Fitzjames’s teeth in the dark, but he imagines them: white and beaming. Beneath the predatory eyes. John feels arousal overtake him like a rogue wave overturning a small vessel. He despises himself for it. His weakness knows no depth. It brings tears to his eyes. He must say something, make some inane protest because Fitzjames is chuckling.
“Oh, shush, you little lamb. Let me lead you.”
To the slaughter, John thinks. But despite this—despite all his resolutions, all his efforts—he does not resist when Fitzjames guides him to his knees. He hears but cannot see the sound of trousers being unfastened. Fitzjames brings a gloved hand to John’s chin.
“Open.”
John does not, though he wants to.
“Blast it, John!”
Just like the pain he administers to himself, the sharp anger is curative. He deserves it. But unlike his childish pinching, Fitzjames’s rage arouses instead of calming the treacherous desire to submit. Oh, how he wants Fitzjames to make him.
“Open your wretched mouth like we both know you’re dying to before I freeze my piece off!”
It’s so hard to believe it’s wrong when Fitzjames speaks to him so. Just like all of his other reasonable orders. John must do what he is bid. Does God not value obedience? Humility? John longs to be led. If God will not deign to do it, why should he not trust in Captain Fitzjames?
Fitzjames squeezes harshly at his chin, then presses his prick against John’s mouth. John swallows against the flood of saliva, but there’s so much that it gushes down his chin while Fitzjames, hissing with pleasure, slips the head of his cock between John’s lips.
“Cunt-mouthed whore,” Fitzjames groans.
At the words as much as the taste—and the transcendent relief of being put on his knees—John’s prick hardens. For a time, Fitzjames seems content to rut just the tip of his cock in the warm, wet heat of John’s mouth while petting at his hair. The spit on John’s face grows painfully cold, but he does not brush it away. John cannot find the presence of mind to move any part of his body; it has grown strangely numb, but he cannot escape his satisfaction, the intoxicating bliss of being used. It’s somehow more correct than John’s own pathetic abnegation. This is right. This is his place. It’s not enough to fail to be Godly as he has his whole life. He must be debased. It is precisely what he was made for.
Eventually, Fitzjames lets out a sigh, tightens his grip on John’s head, pulls back his hips, and slams forward—like he’s trying to break past a barrier. He fucks John’s mouth with violent impatience. It should hurt and disgust John. And it does, but it also warms him to a fever pitch. His cock pulses between his legs. John thinks back to how Fitzjames had shoved him down on Le Vesconte’s prick and wishes there was someone here now to guide him, so he might better please the man. John struggles to recollect the instructions that Fitzjames had given him that night. They’d been simple enough, and it ought to be easier now that he’s done it once. As he hollows his cheeks, a part of John mourns his lost innocence, but a larger part glows at the gasp of unmistakable pleasure Fitzjames lets out.
Fitzjames is pleased with me, John thinks dreamily. He drags his tongue against the underside of Fitzjames’s cock. He relaxes his throat against his natural instinct. Fitzjames thrusts his pelvis so forcefully that John gags. His nose is crushed into Fitzjames’s stomach, and John can taste blood. He panics for a moment, thinking his teeth have done irreparable damage, but Fitzjames carries on, churning his hips almost languidly. John realizes his nose is bleeding. Fitzjames pulls back half an inch at most and begins ramming himself down John’s throat with abandon. John imagines his nose breaking—can almost hear the sickening crack. He pictures his jaw being dislocated, joints splitting apart to make room for his captain. Fitzjames persisting through it all until he is satisfied. John’s ears ring. His nose drips. His mouth waters. He swallows desperately around Fitzjames’s prick
In John’s dreams, Fitzjames always finishes in his mouth—down his throat—and John is able to drink it down. It feels sacred. He wants it very much now. Surely it is not intended for that by God, so he imagines it will be unpleasant, though now he can taste only his own tears, spit, and blood. Maybe it will make him ill. Physically as well as spiritually. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. John—his stomach otherwise empty—sustained on Fitzjames and nothing else until his whole person has been diluted by the other man’s essence. John’s body trembles with anticipation.
But then, Fitzjames wrenches himself out of John’s mouth. The head of his cock catching at the backs of John’s teeth. John sobs at the loss, as much as he can with so little breath. In the dark, John cannot see it, but he hears Fitzjames jerking himself just inches away. A slick, hypnotic sound that tempts John to lean forward; Fitzjames’s knuckles crash into his cheek. John groans as his head is thrown backward. Fitzjames reprimands him, his voice harsh, and though John still mourns that he cannot see the other man, he is grateful not to be seen now—certain that he looks depraved. Tears, drool, and blood cascading off of him, even as John keeps his mouth loose and open, hardly able to breathe he’s so aroused. God, he wants it in his mouth.
Perhaps he says so because Fitzjames is laughing at him. John reaches between his own legs to press against his arousal but rips his hands away. The pressure is too much and not enough. Whimpering, he reaches up instead, placing his palms on Fitzjames’s thighs—neither helping nor impeding his movement. John leans in as much as he dares; he can feel the air move just beyond his nose, and something drips onto his face—beading across his open lips. John strains with his mouth toward the source, and Fitzjames swears before erupting over John’s upturned face. John laps up what he can. The taste does not register so much as the heat. Life-giving, enlightening warmth. It travels from his tongue down his throat. Into him.
Fitzjames presses John’s face—painted, fouled—against his hip bone. It hurts. So too does the hand clasped in John’s hair. Perhaps his pleasure or the cold has numbed Fitzjames to the difference between a small hurt and agony, or perhaps he doesn’t care. John feels like he’s been flayed open. The skin of his hands, his self-abused wrists, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw all burn. John whimpers. The hand in his hair tightens. Fitzjames tilts him up, as though he wants to look at him, though the dark reveals nothing. Still, Fitzjames is all contentment, as if he knows even without seeing his face the condition John is in. “Good boy, John.”
John lets out a harsh, pained cry as he comes untouched. His hands convulse, gripping at Fitzjames so tightly he feels a twinge in his injured wrists, and all pleasure of release is stolen from him in an instant. The searing pain makes him cry out again. Fitzjames’s hands, which have come to rest on top of John's, are the only thing that keep him from falling face first onto the deck to sob into the captain’s boots.
“Oh, John, you are a marvel,” Fitzjames says. He rubs careful circles with his thumbs as John sobs against his thigh. He sobs for the grace of it, the pleasure, the pain. Fitzjames lets him go on for a while before he steps away. John isn’t sure how he manages it, but Fitzjames relights the lantern. It’s worse in the light. Much worse. John cannot pretend any longer not to see himself. All of his weak justifications turn his nearly stomach. He wretches but isn’t sick.
John cannot find it in himself to blame Fitzjames. Even if he denied it before, John must look at all times like this, like a creature ready—desperate—to sin. If he did not tempt Fitzjames—but then, no, he cannot be a temptation. John struggles to order his thoughts. He finds himself wishing that the captain might use him more productively. Pummel and reshape his flesh into a more pleasing formation. But who is John to tell this man, who is stronger and wiser than he, that this is wrong?
Fitzjames tugs John to his feet; he wobbles. The captain’s smirk at the state of John’s face induces another stab of shame. John is still crying, and Fitzjames steps closer. John shoves him away, but Fitzjames persists. He quiets John’s blubbering by gentle cleaning with a handkerchief and a soft, soothing hum of nonsense. John once again tries to pull away, but Fitzjames is stronger, more insistent. He kisses John chastely and then releases him. John feels aimless, adrift. His body moves of its own accord, listing to one side like a ship taking on water. His limbs seem thick and heavy; his hands have gone entirely numb. What parts of him retain sensation ache. John wraps the unfeeling phantom of his right hand around his left wrist and squeezes. White flashes in his eyes until Fitzjames detaches his grip with a delicate motion. He and John share a long, silent look.
“Someone will come for us before too long,” Fitzjames says at last. John says nothing. “Let's go.”
Fitzjames takes the lantern. He climbs the ladder. John does not move.
“No one will say anything,” Fitzjames says from the floor above, more to himself than to John, but it makes John’s heart sink or perhaps stop altogether. He loses his grip on the rope banister and collapses back to the hold deck. They’ll see. They’ll know. Perhaps they already do. Perhaps that’s why they all seem to hate John.
“Come, John.”
John goes.
They encounter no one. John would thank the Lord for small mercies, but God can want nothing to do with such a wanton, sodomite as he. Tears prick John’s eyes once more, and his breathing becomes uncertain—heaving gasps and then shallow exhalations like the very atmosphere cannot abide by and will not accept what is being released by his defiled body. Fitzjames turns to him. He looks alarmed, then dark and woolly around the edges. Then, John cannot see his captain at all.
John wakes to find Goodsir examining his hands and applying a salve to only the areas that look particularly red and inflamed. After a minute or so, he glances up and sees John’s eyes are open. He smiles. “Ah. Captain Fitzjames found you below, sir. A faint spell?”
John makes no answer. His mouth feels full of cotton. His head is heavy and aching. He wonders for a moment if he’d fallen from a great height, but then the day—the month—return to him. A panic—that he is lying in the sick bay in his spend-filled pants, that he had no doubt been dragged across the ship leaking—consumes John so completely he cannot recognize for several agonizing minutes that he is clean. In trousers which are not his own. Had Goodsir changed him? Or had Fitzjames done it before he carried John here? John is so distressed he hardly hears Goodsir admonishing him for removing his gloves in the hold, but the doctor speaks with perfect unconcern. John cannot believe he knows—or even suspects—his patient is such a repulsive sinner. John shakes the fear from his mind and mumbles an apology. His voice sounds hoarse, and John goes red.
“Oh, Lieutenant, I say this for your own sake. We’ve little means to cure you left. And none at all to spare. I’d really advise you to take care of yourself.”
Goodsir says the last sentence with a strange intensity. With his eyes locked on John’s, he thumbs the last of the salve against John’s palm, leaving his own hands glistening but dry. He begins rolling down John’s shirtsleeves, and John realizes with horror what he’d taken for his sleeves are tightly wound bandages, encircling his arms from elbow to wrist. Shame chokes him.
“Yes,” John agrees. “Yes, of course.”
Goodsir stands and squeezes John’s shoulder, friendly and professional once more. John grabs ahold of him before he can step away. John wants to confess. Goodsir could perhaps cure him of this. Some draught or powder. A forceful shove between the shoulder blades at the edge of the icy deck. At the very least, John might be reported. But, of course, Goodsir reports to Fitzjames, he thinks with dismay.
Goodsir is looking down at John with concern. “Are you alright?”
Fitzjames and Stanley walk into the room. They look over at John—with his salve-covered fingers latched on to Goodsir’s sleeve. John lets go immediately.
“I apologize. I forgot myself.”
Goodsir takes it in stride. He darts across the room and returns with thin cotton gloves, like a lady’s summer pair but for the size. He slides them onto John’s prickling, anointed hands. They go to the elbow, and Goodsir must reach under John’s sleeves. His considerate fingers glide over John’s bandaged forearms as he settles the gloves without exposing John’s injuries to the other men, and John’s dispirited shame is joined by a painful gratitude. He feels overfull, confined by his feelings and his flesh. He wants to run from the room. Perhaps he twitches beneath Goodsir’s hands. Tears rise in his eyes. Goodsir smiles at him kindly.
“Please keep those on until the salve has had a chance to soak in and do its work, sir. Until it feels quite dry.”
Goodsir looks to Stanley for approval, gets nothing, and then drops his gaze to the floor. John nods, though the man cannot see it. His eyes are teary and distant. James could almost forgive him he looks so pitiful. Almost.
James clears his throat. Goodsir grows rigid and awkward, as he always does when Stanley abandons him to James’s mercy and attention. For once, James is glad for the apprehension. He frowns at the surgeon, who shifts nervously. John might see in Goodsir an ally, but Fitzjames had not taken pains to keep them apart only to let a friendship blossom now. Goodsir has no right at all to linger beside John offering tender touches and soothing words.
“Was there anything else, Goodsir?” Stanley asks. His voice conveying exasperation beyond endurance, as though Goodsir has kept them waiting for years. Goodsir ducks his head and mumbles a negative, meek and mouselike. James watches him scurry away with satisfaction. He looks now at John, who stands without being asked. Good.
“Thank you, doctor,” John says, directing it to Goodsir’s back and getting no response from either him or Stanley.
James beckons. John follows him out. They proceed to officer’s country without a word. James leads the way to John’s cabin, slowing his steps deliberately. Feeling rage build in his chest, burn in his cheeks. His hands ball into fists. By the time, they are concealed behind John’s door, he is quivering with fury.
Anger simmering beneath his skin—as though it flows through his veins rather than blood—Fitzjames orders John into bed, repeats Goodsir’s instruction to keep the gloves on, and excuses him from work until midday tomorrow, which John protests against weakly. “I’m very displeased with you, John. Do not trifle with me.”
John stands motionless in the center of the room. Heart breaking, head spinning, soul decaying. Fitzjames steps closer and begins undressing him. His hands make quick work of every layer until John is bare before him, except his socks and the gloves. John shivers. The bandages covering his arms are only half-concealed.
“Look at the state of you.” Contempt drips from the words. John stares at his feet.
“Can’t even feed yourself.” Fitzjames scoffs. “Gnawing at your wrist in my absence. Like a chained dog.”
John flinches. He lifts his hands up to ward off the words and the man speaking them. Fitzjames grabs him by one arm and twists. John gasps in pain. Fitzjames crowds into him until they are chest to chest. He growls out his words: “Did you think I hadn’t noticed, John? Whatever else, remember your place. You are my man. Your body is mine. And God’s. What right do you have to damage it? What arrogance.”
John is ashamed, ashamed, ashamed.
“Even if I hadn’t seen it for myself, Bridgens reported it. Dundy reported it. Goodsir reported it. Honestly, John.” Fitzjames reaches out for his cheek, but John recoils. Fitzjames slaps him. “You flinch at my touch when I’ve offered nothing but kindness. I’ll give you a reason to.”
John pants. He falls to his knees. Like everything else, this hurts. Fitzjames sneers down at him.
“Can you imagine anyone else would have you? Your father, your brothers! If they could see you now…” Fitzjames tsks. John whimpers.
“Or Malcolm and Kingston. Wouldn’t they be disappointed? Some Godly man you’ve turned out to be.”
John gapes up at the other man, almost too surprised to be hurt. How does Fitzjames know their names?
“I doubt even Little would take you back in this state. He has enough dead weight to shoulder.”
John is sure his heart is shattered now. Fitzjames has pierced it through.
“He asked about you today, in fact. I’m afraid I could not give a reassuring report.”
John begins to cry, amazed he has tears left to shed, but perhaps they are supplied by the same bottomless source of sin and guilt somewhere within him. Fitzjames’s hands are on his face again. John kisses a palm in apology and is rewarded with soothing strokes and silence. The anger bleeds gradually out of Fitzjames. John can feel it depart like a physical presence. He detests himself for wishing it had lasted longer, burned brighter. Fitzjames drags him into his berth and under the covers, but John does not wish to sleep. He does not want to be soothed. He does not deserve it. He wants to writhe in shame, in pain for eternity. He wants to be already dead and burning in hell.
“Don’t move from this bed until I return,” Fitzjames says from some far away distance. Before he finishes the sentence, John is asleep.
James stays until John falls limp. He cannot risk any longer, he knows; Bridgens’s warning did not fall on deaf ears. He’s being reckless even now. Almost as neglectful of his duties as Crozier. John inspires it in him.
It might be suitable punishment to let John snivel alone all night, but James thinks John is unlikely to find the correct lesson in the events without a helping hand. James regrets the slap distantly, though he feels it was necessary. John—like any other dog—must learn.
He resolves to return before morning. Let John work himself up again and see if he isn’t ready to beg for forgiveness in a few hours. The thought makes James smile.
John isn’t sure how long he’s slept. All around him is quiet and dark, but so it always is. He thinks of ringing for Bridgens, but shame prevents him. John tries to take comfort in it, call it discretion or strength, but he knows it’s cowardice.
John sits in the dark and waits for Fitzjames. He doesn’t know if the captain will return tonight. If he doesn’t, John will go to him in the morning. John gets on his knees properly and prays for strength every half hour when he reaffirms this plan to himself. Through God all things are possible. John will overcome. He will be good.
Fitzjames enters without knocking. He carries tray with a plate of food and a steaming cup of tea. John’s gloves from the hold are tucked under one arm. Fitzjames places the tray on John’s desk and discards the gloves. John’s stomach growls before either man can speak.
“Eat.”
This is an order John can obey without regret. Fitzjames was right about one thing: John’s body is not his own. It is God’s, and he shall treat the vessel with respect. He thanks Fitzjames and God for the meal and sits. He eats quickly. He does not relish the food. Nothing they have now could be relished, but it is filling. All the while, Fitzjames sits on his bed and watches him in silence. John tries to ignore him and his face which betrays boredom or, worse, disappointment. Perhaps Fitzjames can sense what must be said, John thinks, torn between relief and regret. Perhaps I won’t even have to say it.
Once John has cleared his plate and finished the tea. He takes a deep steadying breath.
“Feel better, you petulant little thing?” Fitzjames asks.
The mockery makes John’s cheeks burn. His hand jumps to his wrist, but at Fitzjames’s frown he pulls it away. Still, John refuses the arousal. He is not a dog; he’s a man. He will be a good man. John gets to his feet. Fitzjames remains seated, tilting his head back. Waiting. Provoking.
“Captain Fitzjames.”
A smile curls at the man's lips. John is glad to see it, though it is not a good sort of smile.
“We—this—that is…” John coughs. Fitzjames raises an eyebrow. His amusement is evident. John cannot bear to see it and faces the wall.
“It cannot continue,” John says. “It isn’t right, sir.”
Fitzjames does not respond. John glances back to him. His expression is frightening. His eyes are dark and pitiless, his mouth a twisted sneer. John wants to flee, but he can’t. There’s nowhere to go. He must be steadfast here and now. Come what may. Fitzjames stands. He schools his face into a passable indifference, but the fury lurks beneath the surface. He walks right up to John. John wavers but does not cower. His heart pounds. He had thought the only danger lay within himself; now he trembles to think what Fitzjames will do to him.
“Do not expect me to be so patient nor so understanding when you next come crawling into my bed, John.”
John wants to protest. He’s never been the one to seek Fitzjames out. He’s never crawled into another’s bed. He’s not that weak. Though, he thinks with a sinking sort of horror, while drunk perhaps he had been. Perhaps he had seduced Fitzjames. Perhaps he had laid himself out for the taking. Or worse, forced himself on the other man.
“Or nose beneath the table for my spend.”
John cringes to hear his fantasy spoken aloud. Is he talking about today, or had John, drunk in the wardroom…? It’s frightening how plausible it is. Fitzjames’s anger spills out in a gloating smirk as the fear plays across John’s face. He presses closer but does not touch. Their noses, their mouths are inches apart. John’s heart is bursting out of his chest. He can feel Fitzjames’s breathe. He can smell violets.
“Or when you next try and kneel before me like the sorry beast you are. I’m sure you want to now even. You degenerate.”
John does want to. Oh, he does. His knees buckle. But he mustn’t. He mustn’t even consider it. John turns his head away. Fitzjames snorts. He walks to the door. He glances back over his shoulder.
“When you’re ready to be a truly biddable thing, I’ll be waiting. But I’ll expect quite a show of apology, Irving.” John winces. “It won’t be enough to just kneel. Or beg. You’ll have to make it worth my while.”
John hates himself for immediately thinking of what might be enough—how he might humiliate himself for Fitzjames’s pleasure and pardon. He might writhe before him on the ground like a dog. Lap at his boots. Present himself to be flogged. Fitzjames opens the door and steps into the passageway. He turns back to John.
“You are a pathetic, mewling thing. Not a man. Come to me when you’ve made your peace with that.”
He shuts the door and leaves John alone with his thoughts.