“Are you ready to behave, Katya?” he asks.
“Yes, master,” I say, voice cracking on the words.
He releases my chin and my head thumps back on the floor. I more feel than hear him stand.
“Get her cleaned up,” he says to somebody. “I want her ready for tonight’s games.”
“Yes, sir,” says a deep male voice.
At his words, relief washes through me like a tsunami and back out again in an uncontrollable torrent of tears. Caught up in myemotions, I don’t hear Raiden walk away or the door open and shut behind him. I hardly even notice when a warm pair of arms lift me up onto a raised surface—a table, maybe—and covers me with a thin blanket.
I snuggle into the scratchy warmth and let sleep take me under.
I’m startled awake by a pair of hands shoving me onto my back.
My eyes blink open. They’re raw and crusty, and the whole socket aches when I look around. A female with pale blue eyes and a severe scowl presses a hand to my sternum. “Lie still.” I settle back on the table and take in the fae’s high cheekbones, full lips and wavy white-blonde hair, as she hovers over me. She’d probably be pretty if she didn’t have that nasty look on her face.
“Who?” I grunt out.
“Hush.” She swats my arm. “I’m a medica. Just be still so we can get this over with quickly."
It wasn't actually a request, but I nod, anyway. Be still… that’s something I can definitely do. “Are you going to heal me?”
She rolls her eyes and plants a fist on her hip. “No. I’m going to feed you treats and give you a foot massage.”
“I love foot massages,” I blurt, internally slapping myself when that scowl deepens. Note to self: when you’re at death’s door, don’t piss off the healer. Ignoring me, she raises her palms over my chest, and I recoil, my heart jumping from steady to breakneckspeed in an instant. She’s wearing an ashari on her index finger, like the others at the masquerade ball. Just looking at it is making me queasy. Noting my reaction, the medica’s lips tighten again, but surprisingly, she doesn’t give me a hard time about it. She removes the nail and slowly, deliberately, sets it down on the bench at my feet. I let out a breath and reposition myself. She lifts her palms again, but this time she pauses, watching me. I nod for her to continue, and she positions her hands above my torso and closes her eyes. A sensation like warm water pouring from a faucet spills upon my chest and flows up to my skull and down to my toes, taking with it the aches and pains that riddle my body and washing them away. After a time, she drops her hands to her sides and gives my shoulder a pat.
“All done. You can sit up now.”
Keeping the blanket wrapped around me, I do as I’m told. I’ve been healed before—the worst was when I was a child and broke my arm. Mama used one of the healing sythra the dom kept for emergencies to fix it, and Leodin was furious with her for “wasting” it on me. But whereas that bout of healing was almost as painful as the break, this was like a loving caress. And she didn’t just heal my burns and bruises, she took away my exhaustion, the crustiness around my eyes. Even my voice sounds more my own when I say, “Thank you.”
She’s leaning over to grab a sack of something off the floor, but when I speak, her head tips up and she arches a pale eyebrow. “You’re welcome?” She says the words like a question, and I wonder how often, if ever, people thank her for helping them. Standing, she throws a small satchel over her shoulder. “Someonewill be by to take you to the baths shortly.” She wiggles her nose in distaste. “Gods know you need one.”
40
If someone had ever asked me how I thought I would die, I might have said in battle or at the hand of an assassin, maybe even a jilted lover. But never in a million years would I have said strapped to a chair, covered in my own shit and piss, slowly dying from starvation. Not exactly the most glorious way to go, but highly effective, nonetheless. One more bullet. That’s all I needed was one more gods damned bullet, and we would have been home free. Fucking six-shooter piece of shit. The minute I pulled that trigger and the cartridge clicked empty, I knew we were done for.
Straps circle my torso, arms, wrists, thighs and ankles, holding me tight against the marble chair. I can’t move, can’t do anything more than flex, and it’s slowly driving me insane. I’ve been whipped and beaten over and over again, but it’s this fucking chair that’s going to do me in. The guards stop by periodically to shoot me up with wolfsbane, so I can’t shift. Sometimes they’ll give me sips of water, not enough to quench my thirst, but enoughto prolong my suffering that much longer. I shouldn’t take it. I should refuse and just die already, but the instinct to survive is an evil bitch that refuses to let me go.
Gods, my head is so heavy. I swear somebody cracked it open when I was passed out and filled it with lead, and now it’s pressing against the inside of my skull, eye sockets, nose and ears as though trying to find a way out. I’m too weak to even lift it, so it just hangs limp, mouth dangling open. The drool that had been running down my chin those first couple of days has dried up, same with my urine. The pins and needles in my fingers and toes have turned to a numb ache that no amount of wiggling will fix. At least I don’t really feel hungry anymore, though I’m fairly certain that’s because it’s being muffled by the sharp pain in my abdomen. It’s mottled with patches of red, yellow and a deep purple, I’m guessing means I’m bleeding internally.
It’s funny the things you think about when you’re about to die. I’ve hardly thought about my childhood or what might be happening at the palace in my absence. I just keep replaying that kiss with Katya over and over, remembering every tiny detail: her taste, her scent, the softness of her lips as they moved against mine, the feeling of our bodies fitted together like two halves of the same person. I hope they’ve treated her better than me. The thought of someone hurting her is almost worse than living through it myself.
The door to my cell opens—the grind of metal over stone ricochets off the walls to beat against my eardrums. I wink open one eye, expecting to find a thick guard dressed in black coming for me, but it’s a woman. She steps into the room, her face scrunched up, fingers pinching her nostrils. Yeah. I can’t imagine I smell too good, but does she have to look at me like I’m a bloated rat corpse? “What do you want?” is what I intend to say, but it comes out as more of a gurgled, “Whatta-oo-wa?”
“I’m a medica. I’m here to help you.”
I let out a humorless laugh.
Her brows pinch, and she cocks her head, eyes scanning my face, torso, arms, belly and legs. “I’d say it looks like you could use it.”
“Riiiight,” I say, stretching the word like I’m drunk. “So you all can start torturing me all over again? I’ll pass.” I allow my head to fall, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave.
She wrings her hands anxiously. “Sorry, but I don’t really have any more choice in this than you do. I doubt it’ll make you feel any better, but they’re not planning on torturing you again.” I lift my gaze to meet hers, giving her the silent go ahead to continue. “They want you well for tonight’s event.”
She doesn’t want to say “execution.” Who would have thought when I watched the prisoners get torn apart the last time I was in the arena, it would be a preview of my own demise. Getting my face mauled off by a herd of giant lizards isn’t going to be easy, by any stretch, but at least it’ll be quick. I hope.
I nod. “Do it.”
