I can’t risk doing anything to take me out of my room since I’ve been receiving a gift every night when I return after the last meal of the day. One vial is all I’m allowed, enough to stop my veins bursting into flames. The itchiness is worse than anything else I’ve ever experienced. It invades my mind, no matter how much I scratch or claw at my arms. It’s all I can focus on, robbing me of sleep, an appetite, everything other than an overwhelming sense of pain. With the vial, even one, I can function. I don’t feel the pain in my leg or the grief decaying in my chest.
The light in front of me flashes a white light in a sequence: five quick pulses, a pause, five pulses again.
“Lucky you.” Nova lets out a low whistle.
“What does it mean?” I ask, showing my ignorance.
“It means…” She grips the arm of the treadmill to dramatically swing closer to me as she drops her voice to a whisper. “You’re going back to your dorm instead of a Room. Who did you fuck?”
She’s a child.
Children shouldn’t say things like that.
She makes it worse, muttering, “You must be a real screamer if they’re looking after you.”
I grimace as I turn off the treadmill. I’m not some twisted pervert who’ll ever engage in inappropriate discussions with a literal child. Even if she’s the one who brings the topic up. If she wasn’t so violent, I’d hug her, tell her it’s not normal, and I’m sorry for everything she’s been through to make her so comfortable speaking like that as a teenager.
My bones ache as I make my way through the disconcerting hallway back to the empty dormitory without passing anyone on my way. I hold the cold wall to take some of the weight off my leg, slowing as I pass each pocket door.
Sweat trickles down my back like I’m going through the rehabilitation exercises Lenny gave me years ago when I first injured my leg, but I keep walking, with my family as my goal.
The door to my room slides open as I approach it. I have just enough energy to make it to the bunk. The vial isn’t laid on my pillow like it usually is, so I gently uncover the bed, careful not to end up throwing or smashing the glass as I search.
There’s nothing fucking there.
Throwing the pillow on the floor, I lift the sheet, patting the bed down as I go. Even when the bare foam mattress is staring at me, I keep searching. Dropping to my knees, I push my fingers into the gap between the bed and the wall. There’s no smooth glass, just the wall and stupid fucking mattress.
I was in the gym for too long, worked my body too hard. Now I’m paying for it because all those beautiful chemicals have left in my sweat, carrying the will to go on with them. I curl up in a ball on the floor, closing my eyes as I bring my knees up to my chest, trying to force myself to go to sleep so I can dream about Kane and our baby as the tremors take over.
HANGING*
TWO YEARS AGO
The scorching sun coats Delilah’s naked body in a fine sheen of sweat. Her hair was slow to grow back during her pregnancy, so it doesn’t offer any protection to her scalp. It’s not a concern as the muffled snarling comes from the trap door in the courtyard. Helene sits in the shaded atrium, bringing a delicate bone china teacup to her lips.
She’s testing Lennox, goading him to react since he remained at Delilah’s bedside until she was forced to deliver a baby that wasn’t breathing. In her mind, Helene sees it as a fair repercussion for Delilah’s refusal to do what’s required of her. Two pregnancies, both resulting in defective births. Children without shadows are not children she will allow to drain her resources.
She believes the tea she gave Delilah was a kindness. It stopped the defective’s heart, in turn stopping them from becoming a pest she would have no need for.
Now, it’s time for her to bring an end to the nuisance of Delilah’s continued refusal to obey. “A stubborn girl,” she mutters between sips of her chamomile tea. “Like her father.”She takes another sip as she raises her cane, signaling for the guard to begin.
The dogs were originally a gift from one of her clients who bred them to fight. She accepted them due to Rowan whining how they were used by emperors for bear and bull hunting. His curiosities extended any hunting the dogs would have in their DNA. She is a mother, so she gave him what he wanted. Now they come into use.
The sun glitters over the edge of her horned cane, dazzling her with a reminder of what she’s created. All empires require an heir, someone to carry on their legacy. Rowan has tried to fulfill her requirements. Helene knows she allowed him to get too close to her. Which is why she’s changed his category from the sweet boy she taught to emulate her. Now he is also defective. A stain on her womb she can’t undo because he couldn’t contain his curiosities.
She watches Delilah slowly wake, how her face falls, limbs trembling. The silly girl is kept in place with her arms secured perpendicular to her body between two wooden beams embedded into the stone. The guard carelessly removes the support from under Delilah’s feet so her entire weight is held on her arms.
She drops, only slightly, only enough for more fear to enter her eyes as she whimpers.
The five feet of space between her dangling feet and the ground appear to be fifteen as Delilah looks down her body. She tries to pull her arms free from the beams, but thick leather straps are tightly wrapped around her biceps, elbows, and wrists.
“Kane?” she croaks, uncaring how her dry lips crack around the name she can’t help calling out to. She refuses to believe the lies of his death, despite Helene’s best efforts successfully convincing Lennox. Her whimpers get louder as the barks echoaround the walled courtyard. There’s too many sounds for her to determine how many are in the pack, but she adds to the cacophony as she hoarsely screams, “Kane!”
Scraping is next.
The eager sound of hungry dogs, enraged at being denied.
She continues shouting for a savior who can’t come to her aid. As the barking gets louder, angrier, she battles their cries with her own. Each syllable tears at her throat, each tear robbing her body of more nutrients, yet she can’t help it. The reaction is automatic, like there’s no more natural movement for her tongue to make other than the single syllable of his name.
