5. TALIESIN
I storm down the stairwell, thoroughly fucking annoyed—mostly with myself.
I’ve just brought a mountain of trouble down on this block, and instead of worrying about the fallout, my brain is stuck on a loop of things I have no business thinking about.
Like the curve of her throat. Or the way the sweat was pooling in the valley of her cleavage while she struggled into that oversized jumpsuit.
I can still see those full, pouty lips and those icy-blue eyes that looked at me with nothing but cold, dark fury.
My dick paid too much attention.
Fuck.
I’d pictured fucking that haughty attitude right out of her. I’d thought about how good she’d look completely wrecked and panting.
Wrong fucking call, man.
She’s only sixteen. Sixteen. And yes, that might be the legal age in Havengard, but it’s obvious she’s still a kid. A stuck-up, annoying, innocent little Princess who has no idea how fast this place will eat her alive.
Besides, I have politics to attend to, and thinking with my dick isn’t going to help navigate this room full of people who may want my head on a platter.
At least I know Clay will support me.
He’s sitting at the end of the table, an empty space beside him saved for me.
The Digger’s “council chambers” are an unused basement storage room that reeks of exhaust fumes and industrial cleaner.
Jensen, Layla and several more Diggers are waiting there.
I feel their eyes boring into my back as I walk to my seat.
I’ve probably pissed off ninety percent of the people in this room, but honestly?
I don’t give a single fuck. I’m the Boss.
Anyone who has a problem with the way I run this pit is more than welcome to challenge me for the title.
I won’t have any takers. Everyone loves to bitch, but nobody actually wants the headache that comes with the crown.
“You look fucked up,” Danny says. He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Danny is a snake. I keep him close because of the old philosophy about enemies. “You had a big morning, Boss.”
I sit, trying not to show that every breath stabs at my ribs. Heinz really did a number on me. “Just another day in paradise.” I aim for casual.
Sitting on a crate behind Clay is Imran. The boy who looks like he’s made of nothing but skin and bone. He’s only seventeen, but the six months he’s spent in this hellhole have aged him a decade. Every time he lets out that wet, rattling cough, I see Clay flinch.
“You OK, kid?” Jensen asks, his voice dropping its usual sharp edge.
“Fine,” Imran mumbles.
We all know he is not.
Clay looks at me, and I can see the raw worry in his eyes, but I have to look away. There is nothing I can do. The people upstairs don’t care if we rot away to nothing down here.
Fuck.
“What’s the word in the yard?” I ask, getting to the task in hand.
Prison rules say my challenge was fair, but I’m not an idiot. Dimitry isn’t the type to take a loss; especially not when it involves a Guilder being humiliated. And Gleb is probably going to be singing soprano for the rest of his miserable life.
“They’re screaming for blood, Tally,” Clay says. He’s the only one who looks even remotely relaxed. “Gleb… well, the infirmary doesn’t have enough magic or thread to fully fix what that girl did to him.”
A few guys chuckle, but Layla isn’t laughing.
Neither is Jensen. “It’s not a joke," he grunts, cracking his neck. Jensen runs the incinerator crews. “What do the Guild want? How is it going to affect us?”
Clay looks at me, and I can see reluctance in his expression.
“Just spit it out,” I tell him. Whatever he’s heard, I’ll deal.
“Well,” my friend mutters, “Dimitry’s demanding compensation for the ‘temporary loss of a high-ranking officer.”
“And? Don’t drag it out, Clay.”
“He wants the thermostats on the upper floors bumped up two degrees.”
Shit. I look at Jensen. “What’s the math? What are they sitting on now?”
“Sixty-six. And yeah, sixty-eight would be great for them, but it would put our floor on eighty-nine. Too fucking hot, boss.”
Ah, but that’s the game.
We control the temp, but comfortable for them is a furnace for us. Dimitry is well aware of that. He wants us to sweat for her.
“Fine. We can do that until Gleb is back on his feet. A couple of weeks. Is that it?”
“Not even.” Clay won’t meet my eyes. The next demand is going to be unreasonable.
“Hurry up, I’ve got things to do,” Layla snarls. Her resentment has been simmering since I hauled the Princess over my shoulder.
“Fine,” Clay sighs. “They want to humiliate her, OK? Dimitry knows she’s a Digger now, physically untouchable, but he wants you to ‘lend her out’ to serve him during rec.”
A growl sounds low in my throat. “Serve? What the fuck does that mean? He can’t twist the outcome, we played by the rules.”
“True,” Clay says. “But having her run around, fetching drinks and scrubbing the bleachers? That kind of shit isn’t a big deal. Dimitry made it clear no one would touch her. He just wants her humbled. It restores his ego, and honestly, I think you should agree.”
“I second that,” Danny laughs. “No skin off our nose.”
“Thirded,” Layla says, pushing her chair back.
I slam my fist onto the table. “Did anyone call a fucking vote? This is only a partial democracy. I have the final say.”
Clay nods, hands up in a placating gesture. “You do, Boss. So, what’s the call?”
Fuck.
“She’s a liability," Layla says, her voice dropping to the dangerous edge I know so well. “Every minute she’s in our block is a minute Dimitry spends thinking of new ways to make us sweat. Literally.”
My vision swims for a second, a mix of the heat, probable-concussion and a sudden, violent urge to defend the girl I just put in a cage. "Careful, Layla. My ribs might be broken, but my temper is just fine.”
“She’s not wrong, though, Boss,” Danny, the fucking douche, snarks. “Let her settle her own debt.”
I look up at the ceiling, staring at the maze of rusted pipes. I need a political solution. Not everything can be settled with fists.
“Tell Dimitry he can have her for service until Heinz and Gleb are out of the infirmary. But under one condition, a Digger goes with her to monitor the situation.”
“A monitor?” Jensen asks. “You’re wasting one of our guys to watch that girl shine Dimitry’s shoes?”
“I’m making sure the Guild doesn’t ‘accidentally’ forget the no-touching rule and spark a riot,” I snap.
“I’m not sending out an asset without eyes on it.
Jensen, you’re on point. Send two from your incinerator crew for her every shift.
They’re the meanest bastards we have. If anyone plays games with her, they shut it down. Immediately.”
He grunts, not happy about the extra work. “Fine. But if she causes a scene, my boys won’t be gentle about dragging her back.”
“Just keep their hands off her skin,” I mutter. “And she’ll keep her teeth off their dicks. Probably.”
I stand up slowly. It hurts like a bitch. “Anything else for today?”
“Yeah, there was another new fish,” Dot says, leaning back. “He’s been in the Hole since intake this morning. Word is he’s fully human, but he took out four guards and bit the ear off a Peacekeeper before he even got through the gates. Do we claim him?”
I’ve got enough problems without worrying about a stray lunatic in solitary. “Leave him to the Warden. If he survives, we’ll see if he’s Digger material. Until then, he’s on his own.”
“Speaking of new Diggers, some of us have been talking,” Jensen says. “We just can’t take on any more. There are no more cots, no space. New fish will have to fight for a spot and kick someone out, or they don’t get in. No more free passes.”
The table nods in unison.
“Fine,” I say. “Membership is capped. Starting now.”
“No exceptions,” Layla growls. “None.”
“Agreed. Now get out.” I raise a finger. “Not you, Clay.”
The room clears. Layla gives me one last distrustful look before heading into the corridor, ushering Imran out before her.
Then I’m left alone with my second.
I slump back into the metal chair and let out a groan.
“You look like shit, Tally,” Clay says. He’s one of two people here I’d call a friend.
“I’ve felt better. Heinz has a fist like a sledgehammer.” I rub my hand over my face, my jaw hot and throbbing in time with my pulse. “Pretty sure he cracked a tooth.”
“You need anything?” Clay asks, his voice dropping. “A smoke? A girl? A time machine to go back and not save that Elite chick?”
I let out a dry laugh. “None of the above. But I’m going to tell you why I’m keeping that Drakeward brat alive. Her brother… he’s the one who helped pull those Ashgrave kids out of the Conclave.”
Clay’s entire posture changes. “What? The ones they were trafficking?”
“Yeah. He got some of them back.”
Thank Gods.
The Conclave is like all the other powerful secret societies throughout history. They think they’re above the law.
And they probably are.
I shake my head then continue. “Word is the Conclave was using them for experiments before selling them off like cattle. Drakeward is working with the Unbound rebellion to find the ones still missing.”
Clay is silent for a second, then gives a decisive nod. “Alright. I get it. We owe the guy. Big time.”
“It’s not just the debt, though that’s enough,” I say, leaning forward and lowering my voice.
“Taking care of his sister buys us a favor we can’t afford to pass up.
That guy is going to be the King of Havengard one day.
Having a King owe the Diggers? That’s the kind of leverage that changes things. ”
“I’m with you,” Clay nods, though his face is still grim. “But the block is restless. They think you’re just protecting a pretty face. You going to tell them the truth?”
I shake my head. “No. There are people in this prison linked to those traffickers. I can’t risk the word getting out.
You’re the only one I trust with this, Clay.
Well, you and Layla. Everyone else stays in the dark.
” I look at him, my mind already spinning.
“Now, how the fuck do I get a note to Cosmo Drakeward?”
Clay pulls out his notebook. “Ronnie Brooks. He’s on the HVAC crew, set to be released in ten days. I can make sure he passes a message through the rebel channels.”
“Good.” I take a scrap of paper and a pencil. I think for a second, then scribble:
I have your sister. She’s safe for now, but I can’t guarantee how long. Get her out—and me with her. You owe me.
I hand the paper back. “Thanks, man.”
“You got it, Boss.” Clay reaches into his bag and hands me a length of threadbare, stained cotton. “And here’s that extra sheet you wanted for the cage.”
I take the rough fabric. “Perfect.”
The Princess is going to hate it, but it’s the best I can do.
Fucking eighty-nine degrees.
My best is way more than she deserves.