by Keri Lake
My fingers curl into the purple sheets, where I lay on my stomach, refusing to open my eyes to the beam of sunlight shining in on my face. In spite of whatever ointment Agatha spread over my skin, the wounds still ache and remain sensitive to the thin fabric of my nightgown, given to me by Agatha, which scratched against them all night.
On a groan, I push up from the mattress, tearing up as the wounds bristle with new agony when they stretch over my muscles, after being allowed to rest through the night. A glass of water from the night before sits on the nightstand beside me, and I guzzle the fluids, which practically hiss going down my throat.
As thoughts from the night before slip through my head, I lodge my fingers into my hair, flinching at the snap of pain against my scalp when I squeeze too hard. I have to stay focused.
Think of Will.
Of escape.
Going home.
Across the room on the floor is a stack of clothes and a pair of what looks like military-issued boots, provided, I’m guessing, by Lisbeth. I push to my feet and pad across the cell to dress, flinching as I remove the nightgown and slide a light cotton shirt over my shoulders in its place. The pants take exceptionally longer than usual to fit on, despite their light cotton material that reminds me of something a prisoner would wear.
Which is appropriate for me, I suppose.
The boots are slightly bigger, but not enough to slide when laced tight.
I let out a long exhale, trying to ignore the irritating scratch across my cuts, and exit my cell to find a tray of food has been left there. A small orange, something that looks like mushy oatmeal in a bowl, and a cup of coffee. Two small, irregular-shaped pieces of bread look to be the most appetizing, and I reach down for one, squinting with the streak of pain that zips across my back.
A smoky scent coupled to the slightly burnt flavor of the bread on my tongue confirms that it’s ash bread. Even though the gypsies had ovens in their living quarters back at home, some still insisted on cooking bread out on the open flame. I tear away a small piece of one, and shove the other into the pocket of my pants for Will, before swallowing down the cold coffee. As many conveniences as we had, even I don’t waste food, so I scarf down the bowl of mush as quickly as I can, surprised to discover it has a sweet flavor, like honey.
Leaving the tray of empty dishes where it is, I set off to see Will again.
The guard, who I now know as Tom, greets me at the door of what I’ve determined are the solitary cells. The place where prisoners were originally sent in punishment, when tiny cellblocks weren’t punishment enough.
“I’m here to check Titus’s wounds,” I tell him, which is only partly true.
With a nod, he waves me through with a half-cocked smile.
Titus is slumped against the wall, as before, and doesn’t bother to move a muscle when Tom unfastens the lock and opens the door. Once the guard walks away, I sneak a quick peek of Will, and find him lying on his back, one arm tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling.
Still here. Still alive.
The sooner I check on Titus, the sooner I can talk to Will, assuming Tom allows it.
With the same cautious approach as before, I head into the cell and kneel beside Titus, flinching with the burn to my backside, and eye the length of chain that would give him just enough reach for an attack. As battered as I feel right now, I wouldn’t even have the strength to put up a fight. A fact that must be written all over my face, when his brow flickers with a brief dip of his gaze toward my bruised jaw, where the guard hit me.
“I’m just here to check on your wounds.”
To his credit, he doesn’t ask about the bruise, since I have no intentions of speaking about the night before, but his chest rises and falls with an easy tempo, which I take as invitation to go to work, peeling back the gauze I taped the day before.
The inflamed edges of the wound have calmed to healed skin, something that, I know from experience, usually takes much longer.
Frowning, I run my thumb over the contracted stitches, well aware that I shouldn’t be touching them, but I can’t help myself. “Impossible. That should’ve taken at least a week. Maybe more.”
“Must be a strong antiseptic.”
No, not even a powerful antibiotic would result in this level of restoration. “Or you’re not exactly what you seem.”
He rolls his head against the wall, those honey colored eyes on mine, and for a moment, I almost feel consumed. Maybe because he so rarely acknowledges anything more than what’s directly in front of his nose, but my stomach flutters with the sudden attention. “And what do I seem?”
Pressing the bandage back in place is an excuse to break my stare, and I clear my throat as I move onto the next wound. “Well, you seem pretty subdued, almost catatonic, for a man who rips heads off vicious creatures.”
“If I ripped the heads off everyone I met, I wouldn’t be blessed with your conversation now, would I?” It’s hard to tell if the air is thick with annoyance, or amusement, as the two seem to blend with him. “It’s a pain in the ass cleaning blood off the hands.”
I want to laugh at that, but I can’t tell if he’s being serious. It’s possible that all that stands between fully intact me, and me with my head rolling across the floor, is nothing more than inconvenience. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I mutter, examining yet another fully healed wound.
“You don’t acknowledge God for your blessings? Daughter.” He spits the last word like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.
In looking away from him, I notice a bucket of water placed out of reach. Palms to my knees, I push to my feet, and fill the tin cup hooked to the side of it. Once back at his side, I crouch down and offer the cup of water, which he shamelessly guzzles back. “I take it you don’t have faith in Him, at all.”
“If I did, I’d already be dead.” Brushing his lips over his massive bicep wipes away the excess water, and my eyes are once again distracted by the muscles on this man. The most chiseled I’ve ever seen, undoubtedly capable of intense pain when engaged.
“And here we both are, so perhaps one of us is lying.”
“Was it His will that banished you from Szolen?” The wit in his eyes dulls to shadows, as he turns away from me. “You call me the God of Monsters. Seems more fitting for the one you worship.”
Touché. “Is the fact that I’m a Daughter troubling to you?”
“I would’ve fought for a thousand savage women before you.”
Savages. Ones who grew up in the Deadlands. It was the derogatory term people in Szolen used to describe anyone not living within its precious bubble of purity. Worse than gypsies, because at least they were allowed inside the walls.
His words shouldn’t pierce my heart. They shouldn’t spring tears to my eyes that force me to look away. And they surely shouldn’t have me understanding why he’d say such a thing, but I do. I’ve heard the rumors amongst the gypsies back at Szolen, and I know how those beyond the wall view us. A privileged lot of spoiled assholes. And they’re not wrong. I wouldn’t last a day out in the Deadlands on my own. It’s a fact that’s shamed me for longer than my time spent out here. Because of my ignorance in survival, I’m imprisoned by two psychopaths, one of whom wants to impregnate me with his psychopath spawn.
The only thing I have to rely on is my wit, and I’m not even sure how far that’ll get me.
Clearing the tears from my throat, ones I’m certain are due to little sleep, I take the cup he holds out for me. “It seems your wounds don’t require any more attention. I’ll remove the stitches tomorrow, and that’ll be the last you’ll have to put up with my conversation.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“The wounds in this place never fully heal.”
I believe that. I’ve not even begun to scratch the surface of horrors that lie beneath this place.
As I twist away to return the cup, a grip of my arm sends alarms blaring through my head, and I look down to where his finger
s are curled around my bicep. He yanks me close, not hard enough to hurt the welts on my back, but enough that the cup tumbles out of my hand and clatters to the concrete.
With a palm to his thigh, I catch myself from an ungracious fall into his chest, and a chill spirals up the back of my neck. Muscles locked and tense, I open my mouth to call for the guard, my voice choked by a gasp, when he leans into me. So close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Smell the soap still clinging to his skin. The power this man wields, even when chained.
“You okay in there?” the guard calls to me from down the hall.
Golden eyes swallow mine, as I lock my gaze on Titus. “I’m okay! I just … dropped a cup!” I can’t help but wonder if those will be my last words.
My whole arm fits in this man’s palm, and in one twist, he could easily break it, if he wanted.
“I’d be careful, if I were you.” The tone of his voice mirrors his warning, the baritone sound vibrating through my chest, and the resulting throb between my legs urges me to clench my thighs. “Once they see their marks on you, they won’t want to see you without.”
My stomach shouldn’t be fluttering right now. My heart shouldn’t be pounding so hard that I have to breathe shallow just to keep up with it. And I really shouldn’t be so preoccupied with the fact that his thigh feels like hot steel beneath my hand, particularly when he’s telling me there’s more pain to come.
I twist my arm to get loose, and he doesn’t hesitate to release me. “I should stand by and let them rape me, then?” I ask, pushing off him in an effort to compose myself.
“No woman should stand by.” Brows pinched together, he almost seems troubled by the thought, if such a thing is even capable of troubling him. Titus is as much an enigma when he speaks, as when he stares off, keeping to himself.
“Then, what would you have me do?” I swipe up the fallen cup, frustrated that his touch still burns across my skin. That every nerve in my body seems twice as receptive as before.
That my heart is still freaking pounding.
Instead of answering, he looks away, quiet again. He’s a man who’s lost the fight in him, that much is obvious. Regardless of what Tom says, or what happened back at that arena, they’ve broken him, somehow, and I’d venture to guess the scars on his skin speak of the manner in which they did it.
Without bothering to call for Tom, I return the cup to the bucket and shuffle out of his cell, closing the door behind me.
As I wait for the guard to acknowledge me, I mindlessly rub the spot where he touched me, and frown at my body’s strange reaction to it. I’ve certainly come to know fear in the last couple of weeks, and that wasn’t what I felt just now. That was something else entirely.
Stupid.
An adrenaline rush, is all. The body does strange things when threatened.
Only, he didn’t really threaten me.
I mentally brush it off and peer into Will’s room, feeling a twinge of guilt when his eyes light up at the sight of me. It’s when he finally reaches the small window, and can take in the whole of me, that those eyes dart to the bruise on my jaw.
The ache has dulled enough that I don’t notice it much myself, though.
“Did Remus do that? Did he touch you? What did he do, Thalia?” A hard thunk against the door sounds off his anger and stirs the Rager at the end of the hall, with its growls and clicking of teeth.
“It was my fault. I provoked. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Did. He. Touch you?” It’s not as if Will could do anything about it, and not as if I’d tell him, hurt him that way, if Remus had raped me.
“No. They’re disturbing for sure, but he didn’t touch me that way.”
Gaze slicing to the right and back, he frowns. “Why do you keep going to his cell?”
For a moment, I wonder if he can feel the tremble still pulsing beneath my skin, can see the flush of my cheeks when he asks about him, but I shake my head. “He’s wounded. I’m just looking after his stitches.”
“I have to get you out of here.” Voice lowered to a whisper, he rests his forehead against the hole and sticks his fingers through, which I thread into mine.
For some inexplicable reason, I glance to Titus’s cell and back.
“I have to find a way for the two of us.”
“Shhh. Don’t talk about that right now.” I squeeze his fingers, urgent for him to clip his tongue, or the guard will hear. “Tell me about Grant. How was he, after my trial?”
“He’s Grant. He keeps to himself. Though …”
“What?”
Brows tight, he looks away, seeming to gather his thoughts. “He’s been spending quite some time with Jack.”
“And? Jack has been like a father to us. I’m grateful he’s given Grant his time.”
“You know I never cared for him much.”
I do know that. The feeling was mutual, too, as Jack often liked to poke fun at Will’s lack of interest in Legion. Every young boy dreamed of becoming a Legion soldier someday, and the fact that Will didn’t made him an outcast.
“I promise you’ll see Grant again. With every fiber of my being, I will get you out of here and back home to your family.”
I appreciate his conviction, but his words are futile. “Even if I wanted to, even if I could escape this place, Szolen will never let me back in.”
“Not you, maybe. But me. I could get you inside.”
“How?”
“Telling them I retrieved you from marauders. They’d arrange another transport to the convent, but in the meantime, you’d be confined to your home.”
A very slight possibility, all dependent on whether, or not, I can spring him from this cell. “I’ll work on it. I promise you. I’ll try to find a way out. Here, I brought you something.” I slip the ash bread through the small window, and my heart aches on seeing him scarf the small scrap of food as if he hasn’t eaten in days. Eyes focused on the slow-healing knot at his eye, I huff. “Are you feeling--”
“Ma’am. I think it’s time you better go.” At the sound of Tom’s voice, I turn to find him stood with his arms crossed at the entrance, and give a nod.
When I pass him, a hand clutches my shoulder, and the guard stares down at me, eyes brimming with a warning. “Spend too much time down here, and folks will start to get curious. Nosy.”
It’s a friendly warning, confirmed when he gives a tight-lipped nod, and releases me.
“I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
As I head back toward my cell, the sounds of shouts and laughter draw my attention to the guards out in the yard. Curious, I tiptoe toward the ruckus, stepping just outside the front entrance, and find them scrambling for something on the ground. Stones.
They chuck the rocks into the air, and I follow the path of each throw to a crevice in the building. Unable to see what’s inside, I step out, careful to keep my distance from them, while the next man hurls a rock.
“What is it?” I lean toward one of the guard’s I recognize from my transport here, but the moment the question tumbles past my lips, an object falls from the crevice, landing to the ground.
“Son of a bitch, you hit it!” one of the men shouts, and bellows of laughter follow.
Ignoring the cheers of the men, I focus my attention on the creature hopping along. A small wren, whose wing is now clearly broken.
“Oh, my God.” Keeping an eye out for another throw, I scamper toward the animal and step carefully around it, so as not to frighten the poor bird. Mindful of the wounds on my back that I don’t want to disrupt, I kneel at its side, hands outstretched, while I visualize how I’ll go about picking it up. With a small bit of hesitation, I scoop the small wren into my palms, careful not to further crush its wings. Perhaps it’s only the shock of the injury that keeps the bird from fending me off, but aside from just a few small pecks at my finger, she sits trembling in my palms as I lift her from the ground.
On passing the assholes who hit her, my glare is met with chuckles and snorts. “Sava
ges,” I mutter, carrying the bird inside the prison, and catch a strange stare from one of the guards on the way in. Most ignore me, but something in his stare is unnerving, and I keep my focus on the bird.
Once back at my cell, I settle onto the cot with the first aid kit Tom retrieved the day before, one I held onto because I have a feeling that this place breeds injury.
This isn’t my first time mending a wing, either. In Szolen, one of the native women and I found a crow with a broken wing, and I watched as she repaired it. Of course, it would never fly again after, but it was able to tuck its wing enough to get around. With a gentle hand, I feel along the length of the wing to where a sharp protrusion marks its injury. At home, I’d apply raw honey and some gauze. Here, I’ve only a small tincture of iodine that expired six years ago. Once I’ve cleaned the wound, I wrap it with the thin bandaging tape, avoiding her defensive pecking with every sweep of my hand.
“I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I promise, I won’t let anyone else hurt you.” Within minutes, the wound is securely wrapped, and I set the bird down on my bed, allowing her to hop around.
Glancing around the room shows nothing for her to nestle in, aside from the space itself being one massive cage. For the next hour, I watch and pet her, hoping to gain her trust.
It isn’t long before darkness falls, the shadows stretching across the walls toward me, and a sense of foreboding crawls over my spine, as another night approaches. A clanking sound echoes from down the hall, and with the thud of approaching footsteps, I search for a place to hide the bird.
The drawer of the nightstand will have to do for now, until I can find a proper bed for it.
I stuff it inside and sit back on my bed, waiting to see who approaches.
The guard I noticed from outside, the creepy one, stands in the doorway, arms crossed. “I’ve been asked to fetch you for Remus.”
My stomach twists into tight knots, and I look around the room, as if there’s some unseen portal where I can hide in an alternate dimension.
There’s nowhere, and when his brows wing up expectantly, I reluctantly climb from my bed.