Shoving a giggling Sky on the shoulder, I leap down, my bruised midriff jarring on the landing. Taliesin steadies me. “Candy seems a lot happier,” he whispers in my ear.
“She is,” I reply. Clay and Imran step into the room as well, so I add them to the introductions. “Everybody—meet Sky. No more Candy.”
Taliesin and Clay just nod, but Imran gives her the sweetest smile. “Nice to meet you, Sky. Beautiful name.”
She flushes, and looks shyly at the boy from under her eyelashes.
Interesting!
The next morning, my humor from the previous day disappears. It could be because the dreams I’d suffered through all night—of being chased by a pack of giant rats, or looking at all the bruises and scratch marks on my body. How the fuck I was giggling with Sky yesterday is beyond me.
Denial?
Avoidance?
Whatever. I just know I wake up angry and hurting.
I hate the finger marks that have bloomed on my arms, my chest. The footprint on my thigh.
Immediately after breakfast, I get Taliesin to show me how to use the shiv.
He makes me stand with my knees slightly bent, his large hand pressing into the small of my back to shift my weight forward. “Tuck your thumb along the side, rather than over the top.”
I keep my fingers cramped around the sharpened toothbrush and lunge.
“It’s not a kitchen knife, Rory,” he tuts. He steps in close, his chest a solid wall against my back as he wraps his hands overmine. His palms are calloused and hot, grounding me even as my heart starts to race for a completely different reason. “Don’t slash. This is about precision. Between the ribs. Under the jaw. Stabbing a kidney. Slashing will do you no good. You need to get the job done quick, my Ballerina Butcher.”
“Then you bring me roses?” I mumble, my breath hitching as I practice the move.
“Only when you get it right.”
My hands cramp, but I keep practicing at the imaginary attacker we’ve tied to the bars. Aka, the sheet.
“Again,” Tally grunts. I can feel the vibration of his voice through my own spine. “You just hit the sternum. You’ll just bounce off.”
I adjust my grip and lunge forward again, but my grip makes the plastic go sideways somehow. Why am I so bad at this? It’s not like I haven’t stabbed someone before.
“You need to focus,” Taliesin sighs. “Look, think of someone you’d like to shiv, and imagine them right there.”
I stop, my chest heaving.
“You picturing your target?” He asks. “It’s not me is it?”
I know he’s joking, but the idea of stabbing Taliesin makes nausea rise in my throat. “No, you’re safe from my attack,” I grumble. “I have a much better target.”
I lunge again.
“Better! Who were you shanking?”
“The old perv I’m contracted to marry when I turn eighteen. Thomas fucking Crankshawe.”
Tally’s face darkens and a low growl rumbles up from his chest. “Excellent. Kill that motherfucker.”
“I tried,” I snap, looking down at the pathetic piece of sharpened plastic. My knuckles are white. “I tried with a steak knife. I got one good strike in, but then…”
“Then?”
I squeeze the shiv until the plastic bites into my palm, the pain a welcome distraction. “His son grabbed me. Held me back so I couldn’t finish the job. If it wasn’t for François, his dad would be dead, and I’d be free.”
