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"How long?" I whisper. "How long was I in there?"
"I don't know," he murmurs. "I've been gone a week."
I nod, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. A whole fucking week. Not that it matters. Time in this place warps until only the seasons note its passage. I couldn't say what month it was, much less what day.
The only reason I know how many years have passed is because the Auction takes place on New Year's Eve every single goddamn year. It's the only event I've consistently been to. It's vile and disgusting and Jenkins spends the entire time whispering in my ear about how one day I'll be up there, being sold to the highest bidder.
The last Auction was just a few months ago, and he complained through most of it. The woman he'd picked to abuse that night while in his private box didn't make it out alive, he was so upset. Not only was the event dampened by the Guild's ongoing war with the leaders of Synd, but Jenkins had wanted to punish one particular woman no one could seem to get their hands on. I silently prayed she'd slip through his fingers, even if it meant the rest of us felt his wrath. At least one of us would get away.
That unnamed woman gave me hope. And then there was nothing. They pulled out of Synd, set up in Rima, and Jenkins refused to entertain going back to finish the job. It was the first bright spot among the many years of darkness. If one city, one woman, could defy him, maybe fate hadn't forgotten us after all. Rachel spent weeks whispering about her to the others. Using her as a beacon of hope. As the months passed, though, and life returned to normal, that hope shriveled. As one person after another was brought in, then out of the Pit. As one after another was sold off to the Trade. We knew—no one escaped but her.
Nineteen
Dante
Hot water splashes against my hand, soaking my shirt, but I can't force myself to turn to Aelia. The last week drained me in a way I didn't think possible. Coming back to find her gone and no one knew where she was sent me into a rage. I was already riding the high of burning shit down and taking out threats, but then to find someone took what was mine to protect was too much. The small space I found her in was rank. When I finally saw her, though, nothing could have prepared me for the half-healed bruises peppering her body.
It took everything in me to not find Grant and beat him to death. I would have just for taking her in the first place, but I was in too much of a rush to find her. His beating will have to wait until I'm sure she's okay.
"Get in the shower, Aelia. The water will make you feel better," I say gently.
I can't face her. Not yet. Every time I see her bruises, the mess she is, I'm reminded of how I failed her. Telling her I wouldn't always be there to protect her doesn't excuse the fact that I wasn't there. Grant took advantage of the situation, like I knew he would. All the excuses I have are just that—excuses. They don't change the fact that she was stuck in a tiny ass concrete box for a fucking week.
"Why did you come for me?" she repeats, anger lacing her tone.
I suck in a deep breath. "Ask the question you really want to, Aelia."
"That is the question I want answered."
I spin, glaring at her. "Why didn't you come sooner? That's what you really want to know. Why did I let him take you in the first place? Why did I leave and not tell you where I was? Why—"
"Stop," she cries, covering her face. "Just stop."
She crumples to the floor, head resting against the tiles. Her shoulders heave and at first, I think she's sobbing. When I drop to my knees next to her, she pukes all over my legs.
Nausea bubbles in my stomach. When the smell hits me, bile fills my mouth and I swallow it down. I hold my breath, hoping to stop myself from throwing up on her. My father’s sneering voice echoes in my head, telling me what a disgrace I am to the Raines name, as if I can stop myself from being a sympathy puker. He’s been dead for five years and was an asshole, yet I’m still struggling to distance myself from his criticisms.
I gather her up, and she struggles weakly against me. I don't care about the mess. It's not her fault. It's just another mark against Grant. Slowly, I undress her, throwing her clothes straight into the trash. She shivers, pale face tipping up to me. There's no fight left in her eyes. She's a blank shell staring back at me. My chest tightens, hating that I played a part in this.
"Come on. The water will help."
She groans as I carry her to the shower. I doubt she'll be able to stand on her own. Holding her close to my chest, I let the spray wash over us both. Her shivering slowly eases as the warmth seeps into her skin, washing away the grime and tears. It only serves to make her wounds stand out in contrast, though. Soap and water won't wash away the memories.
"You can put me down," she mumbles.
"Your legs won't hold you."
"You still have clothes on. Clothes I threw up on."
I sigh, lowering her to her feet. Looping my arm around her waist, I reach for the shampoo.
"I can wash my own hair." Her voice is devoid of emotion, as soulless as her eyes.
I peel my wet shirt from my skin, throwing it in the corner of the shower. My pants follow, leaving me in just boxer briefs. I tug her around, tucking her head into my chest. A floral scent mingles with the steam as I lather shampoo into her hair. I wash it twice and still don't get all the grit out of it. Once more, I work it through her dark strands, then put the conditioner in, rinsing it each time. Her cheek rests against my chest, her breaths evening out. If she wasn't on her feet, I'd assume she fell asleep.
"I didn't think you'd come," she whispers when I grab the loofah and run it over her body.
"I got complacent. I thought no one would touch you because..."
