His hand closes around my throat. Not squeezing—not yet. Just holding. Reminding me what he could do.
"You have spirit." He sounds almost amused. "I'm going to enjoy breaking it."
He lifts.
My feet leave the ground. The pressure builds—enough to cut off air entirely. My hands come up automatically, grabbing at his wrist, useless. The room narrows. My pulse fills my ears. I can feel it pounding in my face, my throat, everywhere his hand isn't letting blood flow properly.
"You belong to Coin now. Your body. Your obedience. Your compliance." He brings his face close to mine. His breath smells like mint. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll beg for the privilege of kneeling."
He drops me.
I hit the floor hard.
My hip.
My elbow.
My head cracks against stone and everything goes white. Then I'm gasping, throat burning, hands shaking against the tile while the room spins.
Stand up. Stand up stand up stand—
I get my feet under me. Push up. My legs want to buckle but I lock them, force myself vertical, force my spine straight even though everything hurts and my vision keeps graying at the edges.
Kairis watches me with the same bored look all powerful men have.
"Take her to the intake room," he says to the handlers. "Standard processing. I'll continue her orientation tomorrow."
They grab my arms again—right on the bruises—and I let them. Fighting now would be stupid. I've made my point,whatever point that was, and pushing further just means more pain for no gain.
Pick your battles.
Survive until you can't.
The corridor tilts as we walk. My legs aren't working right. The handlers half-drag me, and I focus on keeping my feet moving, on swallowing the blood still pooling in my mouth, on not throwing up on anyone's shoes.
More stairs.
My head throbs where it hit the floor.
The intake room is cold. White tile. A drain in the center of the floor. Two women in Coin's livery wait with buckets and rough cloth.
They strip me without ceremony. The dress my father bought for the Concord session—gets tossed in a corner. I stand naked under harsh light while they scrub me down with water that's just this side of freezing.
I've been cold before.
I've been stripped before, by servants who thought I wouldn't tell anyone.
This isn't new.
Just more hands on a body that stopped feeling like mine years ago.
One of them mutters something about the bruises. The other shushes her.
Right.
Can't comment on the merchandise. Bad form.
They dress me in Coin's colors—gold thread on cream silk. A collar of ownership disguised as jewelry. The clothes fit perfectly.
