The breath that sags me is exhausted.
I turn my back to the chaos, to the blood and torment, and stare down at my backpack still sat between the cold warrior’s boots.
Looks empty now.
Maybe there’s a stray stick of gum at the bottom or a wrapper tucked in a pocket somewhere, but the fae sorted through the bulk of it.
Now, he’s paused.
His forearms are rested on his thighs, his hands relaxed and without one of my possessions in them. But the two piles are left forgotten.
I chance a look up at him.
And I find he’s looking at me already.
His chin is lifted, proud, and there’s something studious about the way he considers me, searching my eyes, searching me too intently, but for what, I don’t know.
Oh.
The shout behind me.
The guy being tormented up at the other pool.
The warrior is waiting for my reaction, for my tears to spring to life, for my body to curl up in the foetal position, my hands to smack onto my ears and shield myself from the laughter and the clatter.
But I just stare back at him, as hollow as I feel.
His mouth twists, on the verge of a sneer aimed down at me, before he turns his cheek.
Glass leans aside and offers the purple bottle.
He snatches out for it, harsh, and his mouth is still twisted as he swigs the sour wine.
Glass is freed of the bottle but doesn’t retreat back to Shark.
Looking right at me, her mouth curves before she darts a wink at me—and not a heartbeat after, I swerve my gaze to the mist and pretend she doesn’t exist.
I watch the steam ribbon and uncoil through the air. I watch the ripples of water disturb the calm for so long that the shouts of the man have turned into screams, drawn-out, eternal—and I don’t need to look back to know he’s being outright killed now.
It’s written all over the next captive’s greenish face; a woman who hands out bowls of white rice and black beans and tinned tuna.
Her steps are slow, unwilling, over the rocks as she passes out the bowls to Rainforest, then Shark, then Glass—until she hands over one to the cold warrior, but not to me.
I sit through the meals that the fae either devour, like Shark, or pick at, like Glass.
Beside me, the cold one eats between swigs of wine and words to the other fae around the pool.
I’m forgotten completely, and eventually, a blanket of quiet starts to drape over the hot springs.
Chatter dies, laughter fades, screams silence, and soon, it’s nothing more than grumbled murmurs in the distance and the constant rush of the river.
Most of the camp is asleep or drifting off.
I would join them in that if it wasn’t for the acidic wave in my gut, that familiar bile burn starting to crawl up my chest.
The pile stacked between my boot and his is peppered with food. Nothing substantial, not like what the fae just ate, but some chocolate bars, a packet of crisps, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s supposed to taste like caramel but just tastes like dirt.
The temptation is churning my gut.
