by Keri Lake
Not bothering to face the man, Remus groans. “What is it now?”
“It’s Titus. His wounds appear to be festering a bit. He refuses to clean them, as I … as you … instructed.” With a nod, the guard sends me a tight-lipped smile.
Huffing, Remus twists to face the guard, seeming to catch his smile, before glancing back at me. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing? It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you’re eye-fucking Thalia.” The boldness of his words have my cheeks heating with embarrassment. Sighing, he shoves a bite of steak from his watery soup into his mouth and, without bothering to look back at the guard, says around a mouthful, “Take your pants off.”
“Pardon?”
“Take. Your pants. Off.”
The guard’s eyes dart to mine and back.
“Again, with the looking.”
“I mean no disrespect, Sir--”
“Either take your pants off, or I’ll have you thrown over the cliff.”
The man is unhinged. I suspected as much from the get-go, but I’m certain of it now.
Hesitant in his movements, the guard unbuckles his belt and pants, shoving them down his thighs, leaving only his exceptionally worn underwear that I’m guessing was white at one time. Telling humiliation turns his cheeks bright red, and tendrils of discomfort snake through my veins, urging me to look away.
“Tidy whities, too.”
“Sir, please.”
Remus lifts the knife from the table beside him, and runs his fingertip over the serrated edge of it. “Have you ever wondered how a cock is severed with a steak knife? Is it just me, or…?” He looks back to Agatha and I, shrugging. “Must just be me.”
The guard gives an indignant huff, and pushes his underwear down his thigh, the sight of his flaccid cock startlingly inappropriate for the dinner table.
Still holding the knife, Remus stares toward his manhood and chuckles with further ridicule. “Now, I’m going to finish my supper. You’re going to stand there just as you are. And by the time I’m done, if you happen to have an erection, I’m going to sever it with my dirty steak knife. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“Good.” Turning back to his dinner, Remus hunches over his bowl, making an effort to scrape the utensil against the surface more than necessary.
“Pardon my reach, Remus.” Agatha pushes up from her chair, and reaches across the table for the butter dish from beside Remus. When she sits back down, her breast has fallen out of her dress. “Oops,” she says, clearly taunting the guard.
Grinding my teeth, I shake my head.
The wretched tease sighs, as she sits toying with her nipple in plain sight, taunting the poor man.
“Remus …” I interrupt, hoping to give the guard a small measure of reprieve, as he continues to cup himself, perhaps hiding arousal. “I should also mention that I’m … was … trained in medicine back at Szolen. Basic, but enough to dress a wound. I suspect Titus is an asset you wouldn’t want to lose to something as preventable as infection, so if you’d like ...”
The man’s eye twitches as he chews his steak. “You haven’t finished eating.”
“The events and excitement of the day kind of stole my appetite.”
“Fine. You’re right. We wouldn’t want Titus to perish to something so … trivial.” Twisting toward the guard, Remus bats his hands away to show a still-flaccid penis. “Pull your pants up and take her to Titus. See to it she gets whatever supplies she needs for his wounds.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Shoulders rolled back, Agatha sips her wine, tucking her breast back into her dress. “How fortunate that our beautiful Virgin Daughter is also quite talented.”
The guard doesn’t say a word on the way down to the cells below, but his exuberance in opening the doors for me along the way is a show of appreciation in itself.
They seem to have all the supplies I requested: needle and thread, antiseptic, clean washcloths and water, along with a lighter to sterilize the needle. It’s ridiculous that they expected the poor man to clean and dress his wounds by himself, but perhaps that’s the nature of things outside the walls of Szolen.
“Titus is quite a warrior,” I say, as we pass through the first door, our stroll slow and easy, which is perfectly okay with me. I’m in no rush to return to Remus and Agatha.
“God of Monsters, they call him.”
“So I heard. How’d he come by that name?” I don’t know what it is about the man that I find so intriguing, but I’m eager to know more.
“The crowds. Remus likes to take him around, make him fight whatever is on offer. Human, or mutation, or Rager. If Titus wasn’t enslaved, he’d probably be the wealthiest man in the Deadlands, just based on what his fists can provide.”
“Seems a man so skilled in fighting should be respected. God forbid he’d become defiant against his master.”
“Titus? Nah. These days, he doesn’t make trouble.”
“These days? He used to be a troublemaker, then?”
“Killed three guards when he was first brought here.” The guard lifts a pack of cigarettes, as if to ask my permission, and I nod. “Threw another prisoner over the cliff. Tore the shit out of his skin trying escape over those barbs.” He lights up the smoke and draws in a long inhale. “Nowadays, he just stares off. Quiet.”
“You’ve broken him.”
“I don’t think a man like Titus can be broken,” he says, before blowing the smoke off to the side. “Think the beast inside of him just fell into a deep sleep is all.”
“Well, let’s hope a needle and thread doesn’t wake it up.”
Shoving the cigarette between his lips, the guard clicks open the door to Titus’s cell and, stepping inside, strides across the room and flicks on the naked bulb dangling from the ceiling.
My muscles instantly tense as I stare into the room. The first thing I notice are the thick chains extending out from the stained and pitted stone wall, which attach to metal shackles at his wrists. Like a caged animal. The muzzle has been removed, revealing his unshaven and unkempt facial hair.
For such a prized investment, they’ve certainly not taken very good care of him. Long strands of greasy, unwashed hair hang over his eyes, and cling to his forehead.
Taking a deep breath, I pad cautiously toward the man, and still, he doesn’t bother to look at me.
“Miss Thalia is going to clean and stitch your wounds for you. Don’t give her any trouble, alright?”
Titus turns to look up at the guard, and wordlessly looks away.
Still not bothering to acknowledge me.
“I don’t expect any trouble, but just in case, I’ll wait outside,” the guard says on passing.
“Thanks.”
Not that Titus could do much with his hands shackled to the wall, but I suppose there’s enough give for him to throttle my neck, if he got the notion.
The cloying scent of death and rot hangs on the air in a damp cloud that hits the back of my throat with every breath. In spite of the summer heat outside these walls, I feel like I’ve stepped into the embrace of a cold shroud, like walking into a morgue. There’s nothing to sleep on--no cot, or even the straw that an animal might be offered against the hard, unforgiving concrete. The man has been stripped of the most basic comforts in this place.
And a part of me mourns for him, because without the strength and skills he possesses, despite his obvious neglect, I would’ve been offered up as a sacrifice.
I’ve not forgotten what I owe this man.
Supplies in hand, I kneel down to the floor beside him, my eyes immediately drawn to the irregularly shaped scars on his skin. Across his throat, a metal band digs into his flesh, as if he’s worn it awhile. It reminds me of something a slave would wear, but not even the slaves picked up from the Deadlands back in Szolen wore devices so unquestionably degrading as a collar. The gypsies, as others in our community called them, were kept in multi-
unit housing, with as many as six in a single one-room apartment. They worked the menial jobs, like the fields and compost, sewage and pipelines, and were scanned every day for signs of infection. A far cry from the lavish lifestyle of those in the more affluent parts of the community, but better than this. Better than being held in a cold damp cell, arms shackled to the wall, and a metal band at the throat to guide about like some kind of beastly clod.
A slight tremble hums beneath my skin with my proximity to the man who’s at least twice my size. In the arena, he appeared smaller than the mutation, but here, even slumped against the wall, he’s massive and imposing. Fitting for his moniker, as he reminds me of the gods I learned about in Greek mythology, every muscle chiseled and carved to the kind of perfection Madame Beaumont would find worthy of display. Even at rest, his muscles are hard, bulging with the threat of pain, should someone dare touch him. I’ve never seen a man so cut with precision. Genetically superior in every way.
In spite of the layer of dirt and grime, his unkempt hair and tattered clothes, it’s not hard to see he’s exceptionally attractive, in a rugged sort of way.
Dipping the cloth into the bowl of water, I squeeze off the excess and gently apply it to the first grisly gash across his stomach. He doesn’t so much as flinch with the contact. Gentle, so as not to rouse his irritation, I daub the dirt from the channel of flesh, and dip the cloth again to rinse the blood.
“The creature that did this … its claws must’ve been sharp as knives. The edges are clean enough to stitch nicely.”
Only the tic of his perfectly sculpted jaw shows any response to my comment.
“It’s likely of no consequence to you, but I’m grateful for what you did today.” Using a syringe of sterile water from the supply pack, I irrigate his wound, and a tiny black fragment of dirt spills out over the edge of it, which I brush away with my finger.
His stomach muscles flex with the contact, and my eyes are once again drawn to the sharp angles of his face.
“I understand they call you the God of Monsters.”
Lips twitching, as if he wants to smile but won’t, he stares off. Nothing more than a flicker of humor that’s quickly snuffed by the return of his impassive expression.
“You find that amusing. Why?”
“A god can’t be held in chains.”
A man’s voice shouldn’t reach down inside the chest and stir it like a hand caught inside a jar of butterflies, but it does. The deep baritone timbre only stokes my fascination, the shock of hearing him speak rousing my curiosity, and the profoundly masculine sound is pleasing in a way I wouldn’t dare admit.
“And yet, I watched five men before you fall to horrible, brutal deaths. But here you are, with no more than a few minor wounds to show for it.”
“If they’re minor, then why are you here?” The bite in his tone sounds off his obvious irritation with my presence.
After a long pass through the lighter to sterilize the needle, I thread the still-warm metal through his skin, watchful for any sign that he might throw me across the room with the pain of it.
Not a single twitch in response.
“I meant relative to being decapitated. I’m not quite skilled enough to sew a head back on its shoulders.”
Another tic of his jaw.
I tighten the stitch and line the needle for the next one, pushing it through the unusual thickness of his tough skin. “Do you regret it yet?”
“Regret what?”
“Saving my life?”
“You haven’t been here long enough, if you think I spared your life.”
“You’re suggesting Remus is as bad as the mutation that would’ve torn me limb from limb?”
He sits quietly for a moment, as if contemplating the question. I get a sense he’s a man who chooses his words wisely. “It would’ve raped you. Dragged you to a makeshift nest and tried to impregnate you.” When his eyes meet mine, there’s an unsaid conclusion that he doesn’t have to speak aloud.
In essence, exactly what Remus has planned for me.
I sneer at that, going to work on the next wound, his troubling words a distraction I can’t shake as I try to think of something else. Something less horrifying. I don’t bother to say anything else to him, up until I finish the stitching of his last wound, and when I push to my feet, his blood is all over my hands and my white dress.
He seems to take notice of it, his eyes tracking from my hands down to the flowy skirts. It’s then I note the pale, honey color of his irises beneath long, inky black lashes.
Striking.
Beyond their pretty hues that gleam when the light hits just right, though, is a sharpness, the kind of focused intelligence that doesn’t belong trapped in a cage like a mindless beast. A telling acuity that has me feeling vulnerable in spite of his restraints. The man is no idiot, no matter what he might try to convey.
No. I get a sense he’s biding his time for something here.
No longer tied up in the distraction of his wounds, I catch a whiff of his body odor and turn my head to crinkle my nose.
Abandoning my supplies, I shuffle toward the door, and find the guard perched on his stool, smoking. “Excuse me?” The sound of my voice seems to break his attention, as he stamps out his cigarette and hustles to meet me at the door.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, but can I trouble you for some soap? I need to clean up some of the blood.”
“Sure, sure. Be right back.”
Twisting back around, I catch sight of the shackles chaining Titus to the wall, and when the guard returns with a bar of soap, I jerk my head toward them. “Any chance we can remove those?”
“Nah. Not while you’re in here.” Keeping his back to Titus, the guard leans into my ear and lowers his voice. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I wouldn’t take any chances.”
Even though I think it’s cruel to leave him chained, I nod. “Fine.”
I return to Titus, who now stares off at the ceiling as though the cracks there might open to reveal a bright blue sky overhead. Kneeling at his side as before, I hand him the bar of soap. “In case you’d like to wash.”
He punches out a fist, snapping the chain taut, and I startle at the clank of metal. “Hard to do anything shackled to a wall.”
“May I help?”
“If it bothers you so much.”
“I just thought it might … feel better, is all.” I dip the cloth I used earlier into the water now pink with blood, then lather the soap. Whatever they use isn’t the sweet scented soap that we buy at the market square back in Szolen. This is more of a curd soap, typically made of lye. Nan sometimes used it to clean blood, as it’s more abrasive. “May I?”
Rolling his shoulders back, he turns away from me. “Knock yourself out.”
Setting the cloth to his arm, I feel his muscles harden beneath the fabric, as I rub small circles across his skin, careful to avoid his new stitches. I make my way down to his hands, and the grime washes away to expose a warm bronze. When I turn his palm over, gliding the cloth over his callouses, I can’t help but notice the way his big roughened hands lie so gentle in mine. I glance up to find him staring down at me, the weight of his eyes a distraction to my cleaning, and quickly look away, cheeks tingling with warmth. Sponge bathing is nothing new for me, as I often washed patients who were bedbound, but something about this feels oddly different. More intimate. I clear my throat, turning my focus back on the task. “My Nan used to tell me never to trust a man with no callouses on his hands. I noticed Remus’s are smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
As he turns away again, his cheek flinches, like he wants to smile again, but won’t.
Hiding my own smile, I continue on with my washing, rinsing and lathering, as I make my way down each arm. Along his forearm is a telling white scar that runs the length of his vein, the sight of which is an unspoken measure for how far this man has been pushed.
I don’t ask about it. Instead, I pass the cloth to Titus, and wait as he clean
s his chest and armpits.
Once he’s finished, I keep on, down to his feet, and when I reach for his ankle, he recoils his leg, frowning.
“Please. I’d like to do this for you.” I reach again, and though the frown remains, he allows me to set his foot in my lap to wash.
I’ve always appreciated the story of Jesus washing the feet of the apostles, and our old priest even went so far as to practice Maundy before Easter. It always seemed a kind and modest gesture to me, but I can see Titus isn’t accustomed to such things, the way his muscles seem to tense as he keeps his gaze cast from mine. The attention clearly makes him uncomfortable.
The bowl is a sudsy brown by the time I’m done, and I call for the guard to change it out once more.
Squeezing fresh water over his skin washes away the soap left behind, and I find, the cleaner he becomes, the easier it is to see his scars. So many of them. “Can I get your back for you?”
Wearing an unenthusiastic expression, he huffs and twists to the side, crossing his chained arms over one another.
My stomach lurches at the sight of him. A map of rough scars covers his back in the crisscross patterns of what must’ve been inflicted by a whip. Deep, tunneling grooves pass beneath my fingertips as I mindlessly touch them, and at the twitch of his shoulder, I draw back my hand for the cloth.
Gone is the odor from before, and by the time I’m finished, he smells clean, in spite of the room’s lingering stench.
“I’ll return to check on your sutures. Make sure they’re healing appropriately.”
Pulling his knees up, he rests his elbows there. “Thanks.”
“And thank you again. Whether my situation is better, or worse, I’m grateful for what you did back at the arena.”
Not bothering to look at me, he offers only a curt nod in response.
After gathering up the supplies, I wait for the guard to close the door and hand off the dirty water and cloths to him. “How is there electricity in this place?”
“Remus stole a bunch of solar panels a while back. More than enough for this building.”
“What does he intend to do with all that power?”