The cold of the storm raging outside follows us through the dark until, suddenly, the echo of his steps expands, like we’ve left narrow concrete corridors and walked into an open space.
I’m right.
I know it when Samick lifts the torch—and orange light bounces off walls of tiles.
Samick’s fingers slip from my wrist.
I squint against the glare of torchlight and trace his movements, a tall and broad shadow advancing on the grey wall.
A bench is bolstered to the wall, long and metal.
Samick tosses my bag onto it, then his own satchel before angling the torch to rest against it.
I look around.
The scent of soap is thickest in here—the prison shower.
Rows of pipes sprout up from the tiled floors, ending in curved showerheads with drains dotted all around the floor.
I count at least a dozen shower stations before the screech of a zip wrenches my attention back to Samick.
“The water is warm,” he says, his back to me as he sifts through my backpack. “No one will interrupt.”
I rub the back of my hand over my tired eyes. “Have they all showered already?”
“Most.”
“Have you?”
He brings out the plastic Ziploc bag with my toothbrush in it and sets it down on the bench. Then he slides my backpack aside and drops onto the spot on the bench.
“I left you under Arwyn’s watch,” he says.
He reaches a hand into his satchel and, as though it was prepared and ready at the top, he lifts out a folded pile of fresh clothes.
My mouth curls.
Not at the clothes.
I could use fresh ones. Clean. Not bogged down by rainfall, then dried to carry that damp smell with it.
I curl my mouth at the realisation of what he told me.
Heleftme.
While I was asleep, he left me with Arwyn so he could go shower.
“What if Rust got me?”
Samick lifts a faint frown to me, slightly etched grooves on the brow of a marble sculpture. “The rust?”
My eyes roll back. “Rust. That fae who’s hellbent on killing me.”
The creases smoothen out, and he stares blankly at me.
“He looks like rust,” I add with a shrug, my cheeks starting to burn.
“Rust,” he echoes—
