The second was that he was in a room he’d never seen before, so fancy he could have never imagined it. In all the years Chase had spent on the Farm, he’d always been . . . confined. Held in either a tiny cell in the silo, where Jasper could poke and prod at his leisure, or allowed to sleep in a slightly larger room in the silo with no windows save for a thin horizontal strip near the ceiling. He’d thought that had been a luxury and a reward for good behavior. But this bedroom, with its dark wooden walls and heavy beams across the ceiling, the golden glow of designer lamps, and fancy throw rugs, was a palace.
The third thing he realized was that all his psychic brain bits seemed to be intact, but he was pumped full of psy suppressants so those bits were close to useless. They’d put him back on them three weeks ago—when they’d first brought Elijah to the Farm.
Chase gritted his teeth and stared up at the ceiling. He should have been used to their methods of controlling him. As a kid, they’d programmed him to fear everything. Fear leaving the Farm, fear people from other parts of the city, fear voids, the government, anyone who could hurt him if they knew what he was.
Then, he’d gone out into the world and decided . . . a lot of that was bullshit. His talents allowed him enough insight into the people around him to discern whether they truly had bad intentions, and most of them didn’t. The people who wanted to do harm were there, but more folks than not couldn’t have given less of a fuck about whether he lived or died. Apathy was humanity’s biggest crime. Not murderous intent.
But even as he’d gone into New York City to learn that Jasper and Richard had mind-fucked him into being afraid of his own shadow, the Community’s early programming had kept him steady in their ranks. He knew there was more to the void world than they’d let on, and he knew his father and Jasper were taking advantage of the Community and even the rest of the board, but he could never force himself to do anything about it.
It was a mental stranglehold created by Jasper to control their Super Boy even after Richard had demanded his son be turned loose into the world. Chase would be out in the city, but the very notion of leaving the Community or defecting had caused his throat to close up and his body to all but shut down. Of all the Pavlovian responses that could have been programmed into him, Jasper had chosen to make Chase think—really think—he’d die if he left the people who’d raised him. It was all Jasper could do since he hadn’t been able to strip Chase of the talents that had opened his mind to the rest of the world, and there was no way to pump him full of drugs while Chase was running around the city.
Mind control had been the only way Jasper was able to exert his control on Chase, but now that Chase was back at the Farm . . . there were all the other ways as well.
Chase curled his hands in the plush blanket beneath him. One shift, and he felt the bed molding beneath his aching back. These motherfuckers straight up had memory foam beds while he’d lived almost a decade of his life sleeping on a hospital bed? Out of all the things they’d done to him, somehow this was right up there at the top of the list as the biggest slap in the face.
He rolled to the side and got to his feet, wincing at the sudden motion. All his mental pieces were in place, but his body was still a mess. His shoulder ached, and he could catalog a sprain in his ankle, his wrist, and a herniated disc in his back. Or two. After Frick and Frack had shot Elijah, he’d put up quite a fight.
“How are you feeling?”
Chase rolled his shoulders, flinching. “Awful. Your hand puppets beat the shit out of me.”
Richard stood against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He was looking out the window, sandy hair shot through with silver and falling to the nape of his neck. It wasn’t usually this long, and that reminded Chase of Holden. The thought of his half brother caused Chase to swallow. After all this time, he still had no fucking clue how he felt about the guy.
“They thought you were trying to escape.” When Chase said nothing, Richard looked over at him. “Were you?”
“Nah.”
“‘Nah,’” Richard repeated. “Is that supposed to satiate my concern?”
“Is you not letting Jasper actually kill me supposed to satiate my concern that you were still sitting there watching him try to suck me dry?”
Richard looked out the window again. “I apologize for that.”
“You apologize? He’s been doing this to me since I was a kid, Dick. And . . .”
“And what?”
Chase exhaled slowly. All his talents were in place, but he still felt scrambled. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was just the aftereffects of all the pulling. Regardless, there was no time to ease back into this game. The game where he pretended to be a loyal card-carrying member of the psychic Community. He just had to jump in with both feet.
“I didn’t know you knew,” Chase said finally, putting a rough edge of hurt into his voice. “And I never told you because I know how informants and snitches get treated here. But I didn’t know you gave the okay for me to be a science project.”
Richard had the decency to react. Not much, just a slight bowing of his brow and a pursing of his lips, but it was something. “You were never a project.”
“So what the fuck was I? Research?”
“Yes.”
As cynical as he’d always been, it still hit Chase like a punch in the throat.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Chase. And I was amazed that you were a product of my genes.”
“Half your genes,” Chase bit out. “The other half is Lorelei Black’s.”
Richard’s back stiffened. “Even so, you were mine, and yet you were exceptional. If you weren’t so impulsive, so unwilling to acclimate yourself with the Community and society as a whole—”
“You mean dressing up like Holden instead of getting tatted and screaming ‘Fuck the world’ in a pansexual accent?”
Richard’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his other son. “Correct. If you’d followed his example, you would have been the most valuable psychic in this entire Community. A telepath with both precognitive and postcognitive abilities and a touch of telekinesis—”
“My telekinesis is a joke. It doesn’t work at will.”
“It works under emotional duress,” Richard said. “In the silo, you didn’t break the straps with your physical strength alone. I watched them loosen before you broke free.”
Chase scoffed, unconvinced. He’d spent eighty percent of his life in extreme emotional duress and the psychic bits in his brain had rarely rubbed together enough to spark a telekinetic reaction.
“My telekinesis is broken. Get over it.”
“Regardless. You’re a powerful telepath. You can not only project your memories but insert yourself into another person’s mind. Into their dreams.” Richard turned fully to Chase, and his expression was strained. “My God, Chase. Do you have any idea the places you could have gone?”
“You’re right, Dad. I coulda been the motherfucking president.”
Richard pushed himself away from the window and moved closer to him. He’d always seemed larger than life, this impeccable person in power suits with broad shoulders and strong hands. With Chase battered and fatigued, that was emphasized. But he didn’t shrink in on himself or flinch for a coming blow. He just watched and waited.
“I know what you’re thinking, Chase. That the entire reason I was supposed to have dreamed up the Community was to help psychics. Not study them. But there is more to this than brotherly love and support systems,” Richard said. “We need to protect each other. And we can only do that with power.”
“So you studied people like me . . .” Chase trailed off, blinking away memories that came back unbidden. The way they’d poked and prodded and tested and pulled at him as a kid, trying to figure out how a toddler could be mentally stronger than multiple grown psys put together. How he’d managed to speak to them with nothing but his mind and ask where his mother was. And when they’d ignored him, how he’d entered their dreams to beg to be r
eleased from his cell. “Because you wanted to figure out how we can become strong,” he finished.
“Yes. Do you think a psychic like me would ever have enough influence to make a difference in the world?” Richard scoffed. “No. But you? And more like you? Absolutely.”
When Chase only stared up at him without comment, Richard began to pace the room with long steady strides. Agitation made itself known in the way he clenched his fists and jaw.
“When I met your mother, Lorelei Black . . .” Richard said her name like he was trying to pronounce an unfamiliar language. His gaze flicked to the window before he continued. “God, she was beautiful. Pale, white-blond hair, silver eyes—she didn’t look real. The fact that she was a powerful psychic made it better. Even though she was far more powerful than I’ve ever been. Powerful like—”
“Like me,” Chase said flatly. “She was a multi.”
“Yes. But her power was raw whereas we taught you to control yours.” Richard wiped a hand over his face, inhaling deeply. “The first thing she said to me was that no one could know we’re psychics. She was terrified of voids learning about her gift. She was initially indescribably happy to learn about a psychic Community, but that quickly turned to fear that the CW would lead to us being exposed. She feared what would happen if the government knew we existed, so to reassure her, I told her I’d show her the Farm. I’d show her . . . our plan.”
Chase could have laughed if his face didn’t hurt so much. “The plan to study people like her? Powerful raw psychics?”
“Yes. At first she was excited, just as I expected. She was born into a family just as obsessed with remaining strong, and after I met her, I realized the value in breeding psys.” Richard shook his head as if thinking back to that time. “She agreed to stay and participate in Jasper’s study. But then she changed her mind. Something spooked her, and she vanished.”
“‘Something spooked her’ . . . More like Jasper spooked her. Did it ever cross your mind that the man is a fucking psychopath?”
“Over time it has, but I’ve also realized he’s a necessary evil. With his help, we’ve crafted so many powerful psychics.” Richard turned to Chase, not stopping until they were only a couple of inches apart. It was closer than they usually were, more intimate than Chase was prepared for. When Richard cupped the side of Chase’s face, the astonishment and the sudden rush of vulnerability that shot through Chase was real. “You have to understand, son. The government already knows about us. It’s only a matter of time before they decide to use us. Or worse—treat us as a threat to be neutralized or controlled. Kept within the confines of some facility until they can figure out whether we can be used as tools or whether we’re dangerous to national security.”
“Are we?” Chase asked, voice steady despite the way his pulse jumpstarted at his father’s touch. Never had he shown kindness. Never. “Do you want your super psys to get in and take over or be watchdogs?”
“There’s no point in having a watchdog if no action can be taken when things go awry.”
It made sense. God fucking help Chase, but it made sense. It was why, even without the programming keeping him from leaving the Community, he didn’t think he ever would. There were too many parts of it that . . . worked. Too many people it worked for. People like Elijah. And there was more hope to change things, or fix things, if he was on the inside.
He had nowhere to go, anyway. No aspirations. No hope for a life beyond the CW, Evolution, and the Farm.
“You understand,” Richard said knowingly.
“I guess I do.”
Richard crouched down so they were eye to eye, and Chase fought an urge to jerk away. Out of revulsion but also horror that . . . he warmed at this attention. These touches. Richard’s tone.
It’d never been him on the receiving end of affection or concern. It had never been him who’d been treated like a person. If his brain wasn’t close to succumbing to the recent strain and the drugs, he would easily be able to pick out his father’s thoughts. He’d know if any of this was real.
“You’re my son, Chase. Regardless of your mother, of the circumstances of your birth, you are mine. But if we could figure out how to make more psys like you . . . It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.”
Not your sacrifice. My sacrifice. While Jasper pulled me apart and put me back together, you collected psy women to breed more multitalented babies. Because you were inspired by my mother’s family, after you fucked her up and ruined her life. Ruined mine. Ruined Nate and Theo’s after turning their mother into a basket case before they were even born.
The accusation was on the tip of his tongue, ready and waiting to leap off and slam into Richard’s face, but Chase stopped it. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and schooled himself into a false version of himself.
“Chase, why were you trying to escape?”
“I wasn’t trying to fucking escape.”
“You’re lying. I saw the surveillance footage.”
Chase sneered. “You saw what you wanted to see. I went with them, but only because of Elijah.”
“The boy.” There was a hint of disgust in Richard’s voice. “You were willing to leave the Community, to betray me, for that boy?”
“I was going along with their dumb-fuck plan because I didn’t want Elijah to end up . . . like where I was. With Jasper. And then your shit-stain guards shot him.”
“Because he broke in and was running off with you. Running away with outsiders and traitors. With Sixtus. And your brother.”
There was real venom in Richard’s voice, and it was clear he felt a genuine sense of betrayal. Chase had no doubt that Nate and his boyfriend, but especially Six and Holden, were in for a world of pain once they were back in Richard’s grasp.
And he had no doubt, if he didn’t play this right, that he and Elijah were in for the same.
“I’m not like Holden,” Chase said flatly. “The Community is where a freak motherfucker like me belongs. Even if I do hate Jasper.”
Richard dropped his hands onto Chase’s shoulders and squeezed. “And the boy? Is he the reason why you withheld information from me before? Why you allowed outsiders to come into Evolution and look into Beck?”
Chase felt himself nodding. “I knew no one would believe me about her. And every time I tried to do something myself . . .” As he spoke, he waited for the choking sensation to grab hold of him. The feel of his chest constricting as he broke into a sweat. It hit him every time he thought about leaving the Community or taking it down.
Except . . . it didn’t happen.
Just like when he’d pushed through it for Elijah. From the start, a thread between him and Elijah had formed that he couldn’t explain. A connection that anchored him to the present and not a fear of what would happen in the future if he turned his back on the people who’d made him.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Chase finished. “You people taught me to keep my mouth shut even when you’re talking to me. Asking questions was a crime. Snitching on Beck seemed like more of one.”
Richard stared at Chase, gaze intense and skewering. “And the boy? What do you hope happens with him?”
“Elijah belongs here just as much as me.”
“How can you be so sure? He came with that group with an intent to destroy everything we’ve accomplished.”
“That’s not true,” Chase said sharply. “He only came here for me. Because he knew something bad was happening to me. That Jasper was on the verge of killing me.” When Richard just gave him that cool skeptical look, Chase balled his hands into fists. “He’s a precog. He could see it.”
“Are you certain, Chase?”
“I am fucking positive, Father.”
Richard’s nostrils flared. He rose to his feet as a glimmer of satisfaction passed over his expression. “Then maybe we should bring the boy in here and ask him for ourselves.”
It took nearly thirty minutes for Elijah to be transported from the silo to the guesthouse. Long enough for
horror scenarios to run through Chase’s mind. They didn’t usually go straight to physical torture when they were reprogramming a wayward psy, but . . . the staff got rough when someone disobeyed. And Elijah wasn’t exactly the kind of person to go along submissively.
He always put up a fight.
That fiery streak, the sparking brown eyes and nonstop sarcasm, were what had initially drawn Chase to Elijah. From the moment Chase had stepped off the Farm to join the rest of the Community in the city, people had feared him. They’d avoided him. They’d assumed his bad attitude was indicative of some deeper issue, or that he was so powerful that there was no way he could control it.
Elijah hadn’t given a shit. He’d taken a single look at Chase, informed him that punk was dead, and hadn’t hesitated to backhand Chase after one unsolicited grope too many. And then he’d schooled Chase on consent. He’d schooled him on boundaries. He’d spent the past two years teaching Chase why so many things about him were wrong, and trying to help him be less . . . the him he’d been taught to be while raised on the Farm with people who’d thought his body was fair game.
After that, Elijah had wound up in his bed—or in a bathroom stall at Evo—on a regular basis, despite him claiming Chase wasn’t worth his time. They’d fucked so much, it had sometimes felt like there was more to it. Chase had allowed himself to create fantasy scenarios where Elijah only looked at and wanted him. Or that Elijah also felt the red rubber band that bound them together no matter how hard they sometimes pushed each other away.
That all crashed and burned every time Elijah looked up at Holden with admiration in his eyes.
But none of that mattered anymore. Right now, Elijah had been shot, likely mind-fucked, and was locked up in the silo.
Chase simultaneously felt like hurting himself out of guilt, and taking out everyone on the Farm to get revenge.
He did neither. He couldn’t even reach out telepathically to his brothers or Elijah. The combo of psy-sups and sedatives was dampening his talent in a way he’d never experienced before. And Richard was still standing there observing him.
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