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“You’re jealous. That’s all this is. Jealousy. Blind, ignorant jealousy!”
I rest my forehead against my folded arms atop my knees. My mother would call this cold, numb state post-traumatic stress. She told me my father suffered it once as a young soldier, after a raid. Whatever he’d seen had apparently been enough to leave him with endless nightmares that would wake him in the middle of the night, the few times he was home for R-and-R. Once, when I was ten, I snuck into their bedroom to look at him, because there were times I couldn’t believe he was actually home. His hand was at my throat before his eyes even opened, and it took a good couple of minutes for him to fully wake and realize I couldn’t breathe. I never snuck into their room again after that.
“There’s a gift for you,” Aiyana whispers over the shouts in the next room, which have become an annoying background noise. “Beneath your pillow. From Tom.”
I turn my head to the side, both surprised and confused. “What is it?”
“Something you may find useful.” She grips my arm, and I notice the scars all over her hand, the tip of a finger that’s stunted, as if it’s been cut off. Everyone in this place seems to have suffered the abuses of these two.
With a stilted smile, I give a nod. “Thank you.”
“And what will you do, Remus, fuck her tonight?” A sadness clings to Agatha’s voice, and I can’t tell if it’s real, or fake. “She’s not fertile. I’ve checked, so it’ll just be you getting off on her!”
A long quiet follows, and I listen intently for his response, but the low murmurings through the door make it impossible to know what he’s saying to her. Soft moans indicate they’ve made up, though. Anxious to get back to my room and see what’s under the pillow, I finish up my bath and dress.
When I exit the room, Remus waits on the other side of the door with an expectant sort of smile on his face. Agatha doesn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.
At my frown, he nods. “Please. Let me see your back.”
My frown deepens, and I turn around and lift the freshly cleaned shirt that Aiyana provided. The pain of my welts has faded, but I know a few marks remain on my skin.
Cold, thin fingertips drift over my back, and I flinch at their contact. “It’s beautiful, the imperfection on something so pure and perfect.”
“Remus, I am not pure, nor--”
“Shhhh. Please.” Hand sliding down my arm, he links his deformed fingers into mine and guides me toward the bed, where a white gown has been laid out. Where they even find such extravagant garments so intact out here, is a mystery, with everything repurposed to death. It reminds me of the wedding dress my mother stored in the basement of our house. “I bought this for our first night together.”
“I’m actually very tired. I didn’t sleep much, at all, in that cell.”
“It won’t be tonight. I promised Agatha I would wait until you’re fertile. But there is something else I want from you.” The feel of his palm sliding over my welts in a sick and possessive way leaves me curling my lip. “I leave at first light with Titus. We’ll be gone for three days. If I whip you now, I’ll have the pleasure of doing it again when I return.”
The request should send a shudder of fear through me, but my mind is too wrapped up in thoughts. First, that I have no intention of being here in three days when he returns. Second, I need to figure out where I’ll secure the rope and escape, in the event Agatha decides to throw me back into the cell with the Rager. And third, I have to find a way to kill Titus before any of this.
I have to get my hands on those poisonous darts.
Chapter 23
Perched on the edge of the bed, I bite the inside of my lip, as Remus smears the ointment over my new welts. The gun, of course, is nowhere in sight. I didn’t think they’d be stupid enough to leave it out in plain sight. However, one of the darts still sits out on the dresser across from me. Probably not enough poison to kill him, but enough perhaps to weaken, or maybe even paralyze, him.
“Stay put,” he says, pushing up from the bed. “You have one that may need to be covered.”
The air of pride in his tone grates on my nerves, as he makes his way toward the bathroom. While he has his back to me, I tiptoe across the room and swipe up the dart, the wounds on my back damn near screaming with the rapid movement. By the time he reaches the sink, I’ve stuffed the dart into my pocket, careful not to stick myself with it, and scrambled back to the bed to catch the quick smile he sends my way, one that disappears behind the medicine cabinet door he swings open.
Prick.
“You were much quieter today. Why is that?”
“I mentioned I’m a bit tired today,” I lie in response.
“Well, once we get you properly attended, you can sleep until the sun comes up.” On the way back to the bed, he tears a patch of gauze from the roll with his teeth. “You’ll have to sleep on your stom--” Mid-stride, he pauses, looking thoughtful a moment. The behavior is so oddly out of place that my skin prickles. Without any word or explanation, he keeps on, plopping down onto the bed behind me. “The ointment should hold the gauze in place, but you’ll need to sleep on your stomach. Can you do that?”
Grimacing, I lean forward to allow him to apply the small patch of gauze over my wound. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. I want these properly healed for when I return.”
Of course he does. Remus is an empty vessel, designed to collect the misery of others. A vacuum that can never be filled. “Does it ever bore you?” I ask, picking at a scratch along my shin from the concrete floor in the Rager’s cell.
“What?”
