“What?”I cry. “No! I… I can’t sentence someone to death—”
“Shut. Your. Mouth,” Dagon hisses. He strides forward, coming for me, and I rush backwards, until I hit a wall. “You are in a very precarious position, Ember. You owe mefive hundred thousand dollarsworth of work.” He leans forward, and for the first time, I notice howuglyhe becomes when he’s angry. Patches of red color his face and neck, uneven and blotchy. A vein pulses in his forehead. “You have an opportunity to work that off as a secretary of sorts, if you will. Prove you can help me sort through my affairs.” He steps back. “My previous full-time secretary was paid a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year, with bonuses that made his eyes bulge—whenhe earned them.”
Eighty thousand dollars a year. That’s about six years worth of work.
If I’m understanding Dagon, and he’s offering me a role as his secretary… then I’ll be in his service until I’m twenty-four. And being in his service includes passing out death sentences.
“I—I can do other things,” I stutter. “Keep your calendar. Organize—”
“Please,” he scoffs. “Don’t insult me. If I wanted you doing those things, you’d already be doing them. What I want is for you to do this.”
I blink, shrinking back into the wall, wishing I could melt into it. “Why?”
“Because,” he says slowly, “you’re too…pure. Naïve. Fuckingignorant. If you want to survive me, you better toughen up,fast.” He takes a step back. The jacket of the suit he’s wearing flutters open, and I catch a glimpse of something metallic.
A gun. He’s wearing a gun holstered beneath his arm.
This man who has put me in a shock collar like a dog, and now expects me to assume the role of judge, jury, and executioner—after he beat my father to within an inch of his life and stole me like livestock—came in here with a weapon.
Something terribly dark unfurls in my mind. Six years with Dagon is unconscionable if this is what the first few weeks have been like. I won’t survive them. I’ll disappoint him sooner or later, and then, it’ll bemyfile he’s sorting through to determine whether or not I’m worthy of living.
I won’t let it get to that point. Irefuse.
I make an effort to relax my face, and my body. I lower my head in the way Dagon enjoys. “I understand,” I say quietly. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
Dagon roughly grasps my chin, jerking my head up so quickly my neck nearly snaps, and digs his fingers into my flesh until I whimper.
This is what I’d be in for. Pain. But it’s more than the promise of physical pain that does me in. I’ll be subject to constant degradation, humiliation, belittling. And, eventually, the physical pain may turn sexual.
All the while, I’ll be expected to choose who lives and who dies.
No.
I can’t do it. I can’t put myself through that, I can’tbecomethat person.
I. Fucking. Won’t.
Dagon lowers his hold to my wrist, nails digging painfully into my skin, and begins dragging me towards the table. His jacket flutters again, and this time, I’m prepared. My next movements are swift enough to surprise evenme.
I reach into his jacket. Curl my fingers around the gun, and pull it out.
Dagon freezes. He turns to look at me, slowly, his eyes narrowed and lips thinned.
“I would be very careful with what you do next, Ember. Put down that weapon before you do something stupid—it isn’t a toy.”
Full-body trembles wrack me as I stumble back, pointing the gun at him, holding it with two shaky hands.
I take a beat to remember my father. To remember the state of him—barely breathing, abused to the brink of death. Dagonloanedhim money to gamble with, knowing that he couldn’t pay it back. Dagonwantedto have a reason to hurt him… and then he tookme.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull the trigger.
Nothing. Happens. Not a loud bang, like I’m expecting. Only an empty, slow click.
My entire body runs cold. My heart drops to my stomach. The world seems to cease spinning.
In a flash, Dagon snatches the weapon for me. I expect his features to be seeped in fury and murderous intent. I expect a backhand, or a beating that I may not wake up from. I brace myself for the pain.
What I don’t brace myself for is the mixture of curiosity and resentment in his gaze as he looks me over.
