“You don’t need them,” he says, and it’s only now I realise he’s holding my backpack.
He moves for the doorway.
I drag myself along in his shadow.
He leads the way out into the cellblock corridor, the dense make-shift camp of warriors. The faint creaking of his leathers under the rampage of rain and hail battering the concrete prison is a whisper.
There’s no rope on my wrist.
Nothing tethering me to him as he steps around the boots of sleeping fae.
The bruises on my wrist glisten as I reach out for him. I splay my fingers out on his back, as though that will make the difference between a fae snatching me and not.
Samick’s muscles jolt under my touch, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t look back at me.
My hand stays stuck to his back as he moves for the metal grate stairs leading up to the door.
He pauses at a warrior slumped against the railing, relaxed, watchful.
Beside him, a torch is placed upside-down, and so the flame is out.
The warrior eyes us over, then—with a tired sigh, like he’s desperate to sleep as most of the others do, but has to fight the strain of his heavy lids—passes Samick the torch.
Samick starts up the steps.
And the higher we climb, the wider the view—and my face heats.
Most of the warriors have their arses out.
Totally naked, head to toe.
The ones we passed, sprawled out and fast asleep, are dressed in their leathers. But the ones further along the corridor are stripped down to the nude, complexions of marble and granite and onyx.
They washed.
Lathered up and scrubbed themselves raw.
Explains the smell of cheap soap in the air.
Now, like nothing is even slightly weird about having their bits out, those warriors catch some sleep, too.
I tighten my hold on Samick’s back.
His leathers are hard to get a grip on.
I manage a slight ridge of it as Samick turns for the door.
The one the deputy booted in. The metal is bowed and dented, and it doesn’t look like it would even fit in the frame now if anyone tried to shut it.
Samick shoulders through the gap.
My hand slips from his back, along the definition of his arm, to the cold touch of his hand.
Predicting me, his fingers come around mine, a firm grip, and he leads me through the darkness.
The thuds of his boots echo against walls I can’t see.
My own steps are socks, muffled padding behind him.
