The Canary Hears His Loudest Secrets

I had been Wesley Ashford’s kept canary for three long years.

The rules were incredibly simple: show up, perform our routine business, and then go back to my own room.

Tonight, just like any other night, I sat up and prepared to slip away.

Fuck, is that it? I barely even got warmed up! Now I have to wait another goddamn half-month?

A harsh, thoroughly frustrated voice roared clearly inside my head.

I froze, slowly turning around. Wesley’s face was still its usual ice-cold mask, his eyelids not even twitching.

But that voice—there was absolutely no mistaking it. It was him.