They drag London out first. It takes four guards to manage him, though he doesn’t fight; he just chuckles and skips his feet. “Let’s play, lads! Who knows how to Morris dance?”
He starts singing at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the damp concrete.“He seemed so shy, caught the maiden’s eye, with his bagpipes slung over his shoulder, oh!”
The manic laughter bounces off the walls until he’s felled like a tree by another electric shock, leaving the air thick with the smell of taser-ozone and burned-hair.
“Take the freak straight to the hole,” a voice snaps. “See how long it takes to break him.”
It’s the kind of icy, detached tone that reminds me of my father. I refuse to shiver. I won’t quake in my non-existent shoes.
As they haul his limp body away, a sharp twinge shoots through my solar plexus. It feels like a physical tear.
My fucked-up heart? Fucking ironic if I die of a heart attack before setting foot in a cell.
The sensation fades—not completely, but enough that I can walk as I’m frogmarched into the building.
We enter a long, sterile corridor, my stomach twisting into a cold, hard knot.
Three people stand there waiting, looking us over like we’re merchandise to be broken into pieces and sold to the highest bidder.
The male guard’s gaze lingers on the ragged rip in my skirt, his eyes crawling over my exposed thigh. I resist the urge to pull the cloth together. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me hide.
The first female officer is small and stout, her black hair a nest of short curls. She looks at me with pure, unadulterated disgust.
The second woman stands further back. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, her iron-gray hair pulled into a bun, and her glassy stare sends a violent shiver down my spine. Her features remain completely without a trace of compassion.
Does she even have a soul?
I name her Ms. Trunchbull.
“Process them,” she says to the other two guards.
“Processing” is as bad as one could expect.
“Clothes off. Now,” the stout guard barks.
Fuck.
I should have expected this, I should have mentally prepared, but I just…didn’t. Because I’m a fucking idiot.
Pretending not to have a care in the world, I shed my dress. Next I carefully step out of theKiki de Montparnassepanties and bra set Marta had chosen for me from a Havengard boutique just last week. I watch the white fabric hit the wet tiles, soaking up a cocktail of orange and green filth that pools in the grout. It’s like watching tie-dye happening in real time. Or the most depressing lava lamp in the world.
“Hurry the fuck up, whore.”
I just want to get lost in my thoughts, but the fucking bitch-guard pulls me back to reality.
Finally naked, I’m left standing fully exposed under flickering fluorescent lights. My white skin looks like gooseflesh. I want tocover myself, to curl into a ball, but I refuse to let these bastards see me blink.
Then comes the visual inspection.
“Lift your hair,” she commands. I gather my matted gold strands, baring my neck.
“Open. Tongue up.”
I obey. I’m sure my breath smells foul at this point. I hope she chokes on it.
“Turn. Bend. Spread and cough.”
My soul tries to leave my body. When I don’t move fast enough, she smacks her baton against my bare back. The sting is sharp, waking up every nerve I was trying to numb.
