Reluctantly, I accept his hand, and we step into the angry downpour of water that reeks of rusty pipes and a well full of mold. I wince and bear down as the pins and needles stab my skin. The water is colder than I expected. But I stay in place in front of Niklaus, keeping my head down as my wet hair forms a wet curtain around my face.
…eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
“Veitzentuiex! Dé venouis zéxeknéxies!” A man with long, fuzzy white hair grabs my elbow. He tugs at me once, wearing a big, crooked grin. “Veitzentuiex, iñexec!”
The malnutrition in my body is like a drug that won’t leave my system. I let go of Niklaus’s hand and try to use his weight against him. A maneuver that would normally be effortless, feels like I’m trying to move a mountain. The man laughs angrily, snatching my throat with his other hand to force me into submission.
“Let her go!” the young woman yells in Old Alkadonian.
But Niklaus steps to my side, seizing the inmate’s wrist, and prying him off my throat. Though he doesn’t stop with that downward movement. With a fast twist, I hear the bone in his forearm snap. Then another. The first proximal metacarpal is separated from his radius bone. The inmate is powerless to fight off Niklaus’s dominating hold on him. And Niklaus’s shadow stretches over the wet stone floor and the whimpering man like a reaping from scripture.
The inmate begs in Old Alkadonian, but Niklaus doesn’t respond. His head tilts and his eyes go cold, as if measuring how much more this body can take before breaking entirely.
“All right, that’s enough,” the young man tells Niklaus. “It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”
“No?” Niklaus glances down at me, mocking the young man with a raised eyebrow. “Breaking the bones in his hand for attempting to sexually assault this womanisn’tworth it?”
I massage the bruising skin around my throat as I watch another small bone crack. The inmate screams, crumpling under Niklaus’s iron grip.
“I think I’d like to break the rest of his hand. Then his forearm. Then his elbow. Then snap each of the tendons that string everything together.” Niklaus cracks his neck. “Would that make your throat feel better, darling wife?”
I scan the crowd. The whispers. The men seemingly getting ready for a fight as they move their way to the front of the circle forming.
I shake the water from my eyes and place my hand on his chest. “Let’s get out of here.”
Niklaus hesitates, eyes dropping to my hand, then giving me a sidelong glance.
“Come on,” I coax him.
The young man and woman watch us cautiously, clearly fearing the retribution of other prisoners who are gathering closer.
Niklaus unlocks his hold, blinking down at my assailant flailing on the floor as he clutches his arm to his chest.
I turn away from his naked body, feeling disgusted and so fucking sick of being thrown into the most barbaric, inhumane situations that made up the past where our parents are from. How could this world be so evil? How is it so different than the cushioned life Niklaus and I have lived? I mean…I’m in a goddamned co-ed community shower, being cleaned with rusty drain water and assaulted by middle-aged men with boils and sores on their backside.
The sentinel nods for our next wave of inmates to move forward, changing into clean uniforms. And now that our asylum garbs are disposed of, there will be no other details to stand out with. We are now Vexamen prisoners who committed no crime to end up here.
I slip on the cloth and straps that are made up of scarlet rags—small patches of flax linens, coarsely woven together to give me that scratchy, uneven texture against my skin. First is the brassier, stringy and so small and thin, I can clearly see my hard nipples pressing against the material. The bottoms are a shred of red braided string for my backside, and a tight cloth covering my front.
Niklaus buttons his black-and-red pinstriped pants next to me.
“They’re going to make us wear the collars,” Niklaus warns me.
“Huh?”
I look up just as a sentinel stomps toward us, an inflamed acne-covered face pinching in a grimace at our appearance. He holds out two iron collars and grumbles something in Old Alkadonian.
I give the faintest dip of my head, bearing no more fight in me.
The walk behind our two neighbors is a blur. My feet ache and sting at the sharp, jagged ground. My stomach grumbles from a piercing hunger that won’t go away. And I feel sick all the time.
“Do you know how we got here?” Niklaus asks as we wait in a long line of prisoners for our first meal.
The commissary is loud and echoey, bustling with metal plates dropping, cups clapping against tabletops, and inmates shouting over each other.
“No.” I drop my head back and roll it side to side to stretch my sore neck. “Kind of. I had a dream I saw Krimson.”
Niklaus lifts his gaze hopefully. “Was it real?”
