Caspian shifts below me, the bunk creaking. A distant drip echoes somewhere down the corridor. And all I can think about is later, our next training session. About facing Marco again.
About what might happen if he pins me down again, and this time doesn’t let me go.
I twist on the rough mattress, remembering now that moment at Marco’s villa. Him pinning me to the wall, hand around my neck. How I’d felt his hot breath ghost across my cheek when he called me beautiful. How he’d claimed I’d want his cock.
Never,I’d vowed then.
Never, I vow now.
So why is my cock hardening beneath these thin sheets? Why is my brain imagining me falling to my knees, gripping those two glorious thighs with both hands and—
The lights slam on without warning. Harsh white blazes through my eyelids.
A chorus of groans echoes down the corridor. Then, the sounds of men shuffling out of their bunks while cursing, the scraping of the small wooden drawers each of us gets under the bunk beds. Our entire lives reduced to whatever fits in that cramped space.
Caspian’s face fills my vision. He’s standing on his bottom bunk, wild curls sticking up in every direction, grinning down at me like we’re on some camping trip instead of trapped in a death pit.
“I slept like a baby.”
“Fuck off.”
I grab my thin pillow and hurl it at his head. He ducks, laughing, which only makes my mood worse. How he stays this cheerful is beyond me.
Outside our cell, men stumble down the corridor toward the communal washroom, dragging their feet and muttering complaints. I wait until the last of them shuffles by before forcing my ass out of bed.
The stone floor is cold against my bare feet as I cross the room to the one mirror, a thin sliver of cracked glass mounted on the wall. The crack runs from the top corner down to the center, splitting my reflection in two. Still, I pull off my shirt and twist this way and that, checking the damage from yesterday’s beating.
My stomach muscles flex as I move, the defined lines of my abdomen catching the harsh light. Six months of harder rations on Atrea have carved away any softness, leaving behind ridged muscle that ripples under tanned skin. Even beaten to hell, my body looks strong. Capable.
But the bruises paint quite a picture.
Purple and yellow marks bloom across my ribs, my shoulders, my arms. A particularly nasty one spreads across my left thigh—the largest of them all, caused by Marco’s boot when he pinned me in the sand. I press my thumb into it, hard enough to make the pain flare bright and immediate.
Marco is a monster, and I won’t forget it.
The washroom is a nightmare of bodies and steam. Nineteen men crammed into a space meant for ten. I wait my turn, watching the water turn gray. When I finally get to a shower, the water is lukewarm at best. I scrub my face and arms anyway, wincing when the soap hits the cut on my cheek.
By the time I make it to the dining area, most of the others have already claimed their spots at the long wooden table. When I see the spread laid out before us, my mouth falls open.
It might not be luxury by Victoran standards, but compared to what we had on Atrea during the leanest months—thin porridge, stale bread, whatever fish we could catch—this looks like a feast.
Massive piles of bread rolls, still warm from the ovens. Thick slabs of butter. Red apples that actually shine. Pitchers of milk—real milk, not the watered-down stuff we’d stretch to last. Slices of pink ham stacked high on platters. And cheese. Actual chunks of yellow cheese, fat and rich looking.
My stomach growls so loud I’m sure half the room hears it.
I grab a wooden plate and pile it high, trying not to look too desperate. But damn it, I’m still recovering from being starved for days during the journey here. Caspian waves me over to a spot beside him, opposite Elijah. His own plate is loaded just as high, and there are crumbs in his short beard.
“Did you hear they’re taking us to the prison later? For a tour?”
I shake my head slowly, remembering what Marco said yesterday about the maggots and rats eating the prisoners alive.
“Sounds fun,” I mutter, tearing off a piece of bread.
Elijah chuckles. “Max was saying it’s supposed to motivate us.” He jerks his head toward the far end of the table, where Max sits with René. “Show us what happens if we step out of line.”
“As if we needed the reminder.”
Max catches my eye, raising his eyebrows at me. He’s older, over thirty maybe, with thin lips and scars that tell stories. I’ve gathered that he’s close to Jason, so it’s probable he also doesn’t like me for some unknown reason. René is younger, built like a tree trunk, and thankfully his smile seems genuine when he raises his cup in my direction.
