Yep, I’m definitely not in my ivory tower any longer.
This Julian guy is trying his best to play it cool, but the panicked sweat soaking through the striped button-down tells a different story. In truth, I imagine we are both close to fucking losing it.
And both trying desperately to act like we’re not.
What did he do to get himself a spot in Quo? He hardly looks like a criminal mastermind.
“I said, I want some water,” he repeats, raising his voice. “Hydration is a basic right.”
Even with my extremely limited knowledge of the world, I don’t think that attitude is going to fly right now.
A guard with a bushy beard laughs and spits on the floor. “Think any of us give a shit? Shut the fuck up, boy.”
Called it.
Julian glances in my direction again. I’m sure he knows exactly who I am. Headlines of a disgraced Drakeward undoubtedly hit the news within minutes of my “incident”. I’m probably already a cautionary tale for every Elite debutante.
Don’t fuck with the system, or the system will fuck you back, and harder.
The transport continues to barrel along the dark roads heading north. I stare out the window and instead of thinking about the destination, I think about all the simple families out there in the countryside.
Are they sitting down to eat dinner together? I think that’s something normal people do.
I rarely ate with my parents. Usually, I just got wheeled out to dance or play piano when they were entertaining—a doll in tulle to impress the guests. Then I’d be sent back to my quarters for a plain salad, the tantalizing scent of their roasted meats and rich gravies making my stomach twist.
The road gets darker now; the distant lights have vanished. If I’d paid more attention to my tutors, maybe I’d know the geography of Havengard, but as it is, I’m lost.
Lost indeed.
Fuck.
I prod at my split lip with my tongue. It hurts.
Thomas had managed to wobble to his feet, knife still embedded, then backhand me. How was that possible, you may well ask.
Because his fuckingsonheld me in place. Yeah, old Thomas’s son, François, had appeared out of nowhere. He’d wrapped his arms around me, tight as iron bands, and pinned my elbows to my ribs.
“Yield, chéri. Drop the knife and I’ll make this all go away. Please, ma petite. Let it go.”
Fucker.
François de Vaux may use his mother’s “de Vaux” last name to seem refined, but he’s still a Crankshawe in the ways that matter.
“Peacekeeper station coming up,” the fat guard grunts. Tony.
I’d very much like to slide a blade into his gut, too, though I’d need something longer than a steak knife to get through all that blubber. The creepy shithead took the opportunity to squeeze my chest while he was shackling me earlier.
Actually, maybe I could just cut his dick off and make him eat it, slice by slice.
The only problem with that plan is the fact I’d have to touch his revolting penis to do it. Ugh. Gag.
“I need a rest stop,” Julian calls out.
Idiot. He really doesn’t read the room. As predicted, the guards ignore him.
I decide it’s time to go back to work. I’m trying—and failing—to twist my wrists through these bastard cuffs. Fat Tony told me they were carbon-steel, which I guess means they’re unbreakable, but we’ll see. If I had my magic, I’d be fine, but the dicks injected me with something that extinguished my spark. The feeling is hollow and awful. I’d rather have a limb missing.
Come on. Fucking do it. Stop being a pussy, Aurora.
