借口（英文版）第 26 部分

I go and run the bath, and we sink into the tepid water gratefully.

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"Don't worry about tonight," I tell him nobly. "I can handle this shit. So long as it isn't Matt, I'll be fine."

"It won't be Matt," he whispers. I jerk my head up to look at him.

"What do you...?"

"You know what I mean, Fox. It won't be Matt." His dark eyes are unreadable. "It'll be Saunders."

We sit there staring at each other with the truth between us.

"He wants you now." Skinner shrugs. "You saw the way he was looking at you earlier. How would you feel if he...?"

"Stop it." I close my eyes and picture Saunders with his creepy, patronizing smile and cool ruthlessness. His polite, urbane exterior hides a heart of pure steel. "He's more dangerous than Matt, isn't he?" I whisper.

"I've always thought so, yes." Skinner's eyes haven't left mine. "But his brutality isn't mindless. He's a sane psychopath rather than a crazy one."

"That's even worse."

"If I were fit, I'd beat him. I might beat him yet," Skinner tells me. "But I want you to be realistic about this. I'm in bad shape right now. If you can find a way of wanting him, of letting him—"

"No. I can't," I tell him fiercely.

"You might have to." He pulls me over and nestles my head under his chin. His feverish flesh has begun to heat the cool water. His lips suck gently at the welts on my back, his fingers running over them with infinite tenderness.

"I want to go home," I whimper pathetically.

"So do I, Fox," he whispers into my ear. "So do I."

Eleven p.m. is our witching hour. Our date with fate. The moment of truth. I'm counting each last minute as it passes until we get to it. By the time I get him out of the bath and onto the bed, it's nearly 5 p.m.

"I'll get you something to eat," I tell him. He nods gratefully, and I set off.

* * *

I have no way of knowing if I'll be able to do this. Considering how regimented this loony bin is, eating between meals is probably a flogging offense, but, frankly, I don't give a damn. I track down Saunders in the massage room where Nick is attending to him.

"Fox." He smiles, and beckons me over. "Have you recovered from this morning's little punishment?" he asks, sitting up on the massage table, his towel falling away to reveal a firmly muscled midriff. I can feel myself tensing at the way his eyes are traveling over my body. Two can play at this game. I allow my gaze to wander over his body, in a frankly assessing and speculative way. He's older than Skinner by maybe five or so years, and in very good shape. He has some sparse chest hair (unlike my furry caveman!) in a mixture of white and brown, and his hips and legs are thickset. Solid. He's stockier than Skinner, shorter, more compact, a ram to my bull, but equally dangerous. He's naked and unashamed of that fact, making no move to cover himself under my raking, disdainful gaze. By the time I've allowed that gaze to travel back to his sharp blue eyes, I notice how dangerously amused he is. His creepy smile is plastered all over his face. He beckons me towards him, and I move forward, cautiously. He's urbane, still smiling, and I relax a fraction, only to find myself swept forward over the massage table, with one of his hands planted firmly on my sore back. Much as I wouldn't like to give him the pleasure, I can't bite back the strangled cry of pain that escapes from my lips.

"Do you like what you see?" he asks pleasantly, as if discussing the weather. One of his hands twists in my hair, holding me still.

"I'm satisfied with what I've got already," I grind out.

"Pity." He slams my face forward into the leather upholstery of the massage table. "Because I don't like insolent boys, Fox. Boys who stare. Boys who run away. Boys whose obedience is always tinged with defiance, boys who've been allowed to run wild for too long. Boys who need a firm hand." He tugs on my hair, pulling my head back until I'm gasping.

"I'm not a fucking boy," I manage to hiss. "I'm thirty-fucking-seven, for God's sake!"

He shakes his head with rueful amusement.

"You just don't seem to get it, Fox," he laughs. "You're whatever I say you are. Whatever any of us wants you to be. That's all you can aspire to."

"You're wrong," I pant, on the verge of hitting him, but trying desperately to restrain myself. Skinner doesn't need to deal with me screwing things up again. Not when he's ill.

"No. You are. And he is. Skinner. He's never broken you. He's handled you all wrong."

"Somehow I get the feeling that you're going to tell me that you could do a better job," I mutter.

"Would you like that?" He lets go and circles me as if he's a vulture eyeing his next meal.

"Look, I didn't come here for this. I just came here to ask for someone to let me into the kitchen so that I can grab something to eat," I tell him, trying to calm down, and get the conversation back on a less confrontational footing.

"Grab something to eat?" He stands behind me, too close, and I can feel him breathing in the scent of my hair.

"For my master." I stand still, clenching my fists. "He wants to eat in his room."

"Does he? How anti-social of him," Saunders murmurs. "I do hope he is quite...well." He puts his hands on my shoulders and runs them down the sides of my arms.

"He's fine." I close my eyes and count to ten. He won't provoke me into anything. I won't let him do that. Never before have I had to fight so hard to keep control of myself.

"Good. Because we want him fit, don't we? For the Arena tonight?" His lips brush the back of my neck, and my whole body stiffens. He laughs. "We'll have to work on loosening him up," he remarks to Nick over my shoulder, as if he already owns me. Nick smiles at me, a gentle, serene smile of agreement.

"We can do that," he replies to his master.

"In the meantime" Saunders sits back down on the massage table, "your master will be expecting his meal, and I wouldn't want you to keep him waiting. Nick—take Fox to the kitchen and see that he is fully provided for. It may be the last meal he and his current master share together." He smiles wolfishly at me and his intent is now open between us. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he will fight Skinner tonight.

* * *

I return to our room to find Skinner flushed and feverish. His eyes are glowing too brightly, and there's a sheen of sweat all over his body.

"You can't fight tonight. I'll tell Saunders." I sit down on the bed in front of him, and start spooning soup into him.

"Mulder, I can feed myself." He grabs the bowl from me. "And I don't think Saunders will give a toad's fart whether I'm ill or not."

"A toad's fart?" I gaze at him quizzically, head on one side. "Is that a technical Marine expression?"

"No, it's a technical Skinner expression. Anyway, I'm feeling much better," he says, nodding confidently. "I'll beat the bastard and then you can show me your appreciation in your own inimitable way."

"Sounds good to me." I stuff a chunk of bread into my mouth. "Then we can catch the murderer and go home and live happily ever after. Oh, and have non-stop sex, right?"

"Something like that," he grins, then the smile fades. "Come here." He puts his bowl down, and I crawl over to sit between his knees. He takes hold of my face and looks into my eyes. He isn't wearing his glasses, and his eyes are dark and intense. "I want you to agree to something," he says.

"What?" I ask cautiously.

He shakes his head. "You have to agree without knowing what, my paranoid little sex maniac." He puts his hand on my neck, drawing me closer, until I'm being dragged deeper and deeper into that dark, mesmerizing stare.

"I'm not sure..." I begin, and he puts his index finger over my mouth.

"You have to agree," he says. "I want a promise from you. After what we've been through together in the past few days, I wouldn't have thought that was too much to ask for." I open my mouth and start sucking his finger and he sighs and rolls his eyes, removing it and giving me a rough shake. "Do you agree to do whatever I tell you next?" he asks.