Chapter 158: The Naked Mansion.
"I’m not going in there," Becky said, gripping the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.
The gates stood open, iron bars gleaming under the sun. The naked man waited at a patient distance, hands clasped loosely in front of him, completely unbothered.
"Bala said you’d do the talking," she continued, voice tight. "I’ll wait in the car."
"I’m not going without my partner," I said. I reached down, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and pulled it off in one smooth motion. Cool air hit my chest as I tossed it into the back seat.
She went quiet, the specific silence of someone who had run out of arguments and was now staring at the consequences.
I worked through the rest in the passenger seat. Boots off. Jeans unbuttoned and shoved down my thighs, fabric catching briefly on my knees before I kicked them free. Beside me, Becky exhaled sharply through her nose, then pulled her CGI shirt over her head in one irritated yank. Her pink bra came into view, the straps digging lightly into her shoulders. She reached behind her back, unclasped it, and tossed it aside. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tightening instantly in the cool air from the AC. She lifted her hips, working her pants and underwear down together in sharp, efficient motions, fabric sliding over smooth skin and toned legs until she was completely bare.
"I hate missions like this," she muttered, reaching back to adjust the seat, her breasts shifting with the movement. "Imagine if I’d come with Max."
"What’s special about Max?" I asked, more to fill the silence than anything, as I settled back naked against the leather.
"He’s my brother," she said, voice flat, pulling her seatbelt across her bare chest with a click. "Imagine him seeing me like this."
I kept my eyes forward. "I’ve done stranger things," I said, the memory of golden stones and my father’s sister flashing briefly behind my eyes.
Becky put the car in drive and rolled forward slowly. The naked gatekeeper approached my window, eyes moving over both of us with professional detachment, lingering a second longer on Becky’s bare breasts before waving us through with a small gesture.
She drove into the compound, tires crunching softly on the gravel driveway. Her hands stayed tight on the wheel, shoulders rigid, thighs pressed together against the leather seat.
"This world is completely insane," she muttered, cheeks faintly flushed.
"Yes," I agreed, looking at the large mansion ahead of us through the windshield. Sunlight glinted off its windows like watchful eyes. "It is."
The naked man walked beside the car for a few steps before falling back, his bare feet leaving prints in the gravel as we continued toward the main entrance.
We got out of the car.
The gravel crunched sharply under my bare feet, small stones pressing into my soles. Becky stepped out on the other side, door shutting with a solid thunk. She crossed her arms over her chest for half a second, then dropped them, clearly fighting the instinct.
Her cheeks were flushed, jaw tight. She glanced at me, then at the naked woman waiting at the mansion entrance, then fixed her gaze somewhere in the middle distance with the rigid expression of someone who had decided eye contact with anything was temporarily off the table.
"Don’t look at me," she muttered.
I was already looking. I forced my eyes forward.
"I think we’re going to be the best partnership CGI has ever produced," I said.
"Don’t," she said through her teeth.
We walked toward the entrance.
The woman waiting there was mixed race, her skin carrying the evidence of it beautifully, warm golden-brown with subtle undertones. Late thirties or early forties. She had a face I recognized without having met her. The same strong bone structure. The same determined set of the jaw. Speed’s mother.
She looked at both of us with the composed assessment of someone who had been receiving visitors this way for long enough that our discomfort was not her concern. Her posture was straight, shoulders relaxed, completely at ease in her nakedness under the midday sun.
"Mrs. Rivers," I said.
"Yes," she replied, voice calm and even. "Come in."
She turned and led us inside. Becky fell into step beside me, close enough that our arms brushed once. Neither of us spoke. We walked into the naked mansion to tell a woman a lie about how her son had died.
Bala wants this clean, I thought, the cool air of the entrance hall brushing across my bare skin. One lie standing between stability and something worse.
Make it convincing.
The marble floor was cold under my feet as we followed her deeper into the house, our reflections moving silently in the tall, polished mirrors lining the walls.
The living room had pictures of Mrs. Rivers on every wall. Large framed photographs, smaller candid shots, all of them showing her completely naked in various elegant poses, standing by a window with sunlight tracing her curves, reclining on a chaise, laughing in a garden. The images created a constant, unblinking presence that made the room feel both intimate and exposed at once.
We sat on the long white sofas. Becky lowered herself beside me, thighs pressed tightly together, arms crossed over her chest before she caught herself and let them drop to her sides. Mrs. Rivers sat directly across from us in a wide armchair, leaning back with the effortless comfort of someone completely at home in her own skin. Her legs were crossed casually, one ankle resting on her knee, the posture open and unselfconscious.
"Bala sent children," she said, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface of her calm tone. "He didn’t have the courage to come himself."
Becky said nothing. She had correctly identified that this conversation was mine to manage and had withdrawn into watchful silence, her bare shoulders tense.
"Your names," Mrs. Rivers said.
"She’s Rebe—"
"Don’t speak for her."
"Rebecca Donman," Becky said quickly, voice steady but clipped.
Mrs. Rivers turned her full attention to me. Her eyes moved slowly, deliberately, tracing down my chest, my abdomen, then back up to my face with the unhurried assessment of someone who found what she was looking at interesting.
"Abram," I said, choosing to stop there.
"Abram," she repeated, her voice dropping slightly, almost appreciative. "I appreciate what I’m seeing. Wow."
You’ve mistaken the direction of the hunt, Eleanor’s voice arrived without warning, low and clear in my mind.
Mrs. Rivers looked back up at my face. "So. Why did Bala send you specifically to speak about my son? Were you with him?"
"Yes," I said. "I attended school with Speed and I was with him on the mission outside the walls when he died."
I thought about the walls. About stability. About the primordial women who needed to stay exactly where they were, inside their routines, until I could reach them. Chaos served nobody’s mission right now.
"Speed was a good friend," I said.
The lie came out clean and smooth. The specific cleanness of something said with enough conviction that the truth underneath it didn’t show.
Mrs. Rivers looked at me for a long moment. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly, searching my face. The afternoon light coming through the tall windows caught on her bare shoulders and the curve of her breasts as she leaned forward a fraction, elbows resting on her knees. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the mansion.
She studied me like she was weighing every word, every micro-expression, the way my hands rested on my thighs, the set of my shoulders.
Finally, she spoke.
"Tell me how it happened."