29. FRANCOIS
It’s been twenty-four hours since I had to watch the wolf’s dirty hands on her body. Watch him desecrate her lips with a kiss. It still burns. Burns. Venom pours from salivary glands at the memory.
In the gray morning light, I sprint across the uneven gravel of the yard, the cold air biting at my lungs, but it does nothing to cool the fire under my skin. That first taste of her should have been mine. I would have made it refined, elegant, a slow unraveling of her defenses.
Instead, she gave it to a man who smells of wet earth and industrial grease just to spite me.
My creature is coiling round and around as I push my pace, my feet slamming into the dirt. He demands I turn the air into a toxic poison that destroys them both. No. I am not my father. Though I did renew the toxin in Bevan’s blood so he wouldn’t be so…sprightly.
I finally break my stride, dropping to a walk as I pass through the heavy steel threshold of the back entrance, leaving the bleak yard behind. My uniform shirt is damp, clinging to my chest, my skin steaming in the milder air of the corridors.
Even out here, my mind stays locked on her. She is fragile, but also filled with strength. Able to be broken, while amazingly resilient.
Une dichotomie. A dichotomy.
And magnificent.
I want to be the one who kindles the fire in her eyes with passion, not pain.
I want to feel her heart fumbling its rhythm against my own.
But I want her to choose my darkness. I want her to look into my shadows and find it more inviting than the simple, mud-filled world of the wolf.
Thomas would have dragged her out by her hair.
He would have broken her spirit with a violence. No.
Leaning back against the concrete wall, my breathing finally slowing, I stare blankly down toward the corridors of endless cells. I came to this wretched place because I knew that here, in the dark, she’d need me to keep her safe from the scavengers.
I did not expect her to have already found a guardian.
But if the danger truly gets too much? I have the power to walk her through the front gates—lawfully or otherwise—not him.
I’d prefer us to bid adieu to this fortress through legal means; having to become a fugitive seems tedious, but if the wolf or this pit begins to swallow her whole, I will not wait for a judge’s permission to tear these walls down.
I will do anything for her, but she treats me as the villain, all while lavishing affection on the fallen bossman. C’est relou.
My musings are interrupted by the scent of a digger grunt coming down the hallway. The rodent Daniel.
“Boss,” he squeaks, shifting his weight from pigeon-toed foot to foot. While shuffling, he’s still managing to wear an unearned look of self-importance. “Boss,” he repeats. “It’s time, the weekly staff meeting. Bevan always led them, and like Jensen, Dot, the others—they’re waiting for you.”
I pull the damp collar of my uniform away from my neck. “A staff…meeting? Do you expect me to discuss the merits of powdered eggs over powdered potatoes?”
“Uh, no, Boss. It’s about, like, the quotas and stuff. And the Guild, you know, all that.” All that.
I am the King of this gutter now, and apparently, Kings must listen to the complaints of peasantry.
“Very well,” I sigh, smoothing the front of my damp uniform. “Lead the way, Daniel. Let us go and endure this ‘stuff’ you speak of.”
The walk to our assembly is a sensory assault. I loathe this place. I hate the way the moisture clings to the walls like rancid sweat. I detest the alkaline scent of industrial soap.
And above all, I abhor the permanent stench of desperate humanity.
My mundane marshals look up as I enter. Jensen’s face is filled with an endless exhaustion. Dot has her arms crossed, and displays an unconvincing mask of indifference.
The hideously named Skid is tapping a wrench against his thigh. I shudder at the thought of where that utensil has been.
Taking a seat, I feel the weight of their collective nervous tension battering me and for the next hour, I am bored rigid.
Jensen drones on about vent pressure, the broad-shouldered dame de la blanchisserie argues about laundry scrips. Skid wants to talk about a backwater valve, whatever that may be.
It is death by a thousand tiny, bureaucratic stings.
I am doing this for her.
If I have to listen to a man talk about soot for another twenty minutes to ensure she stays safe, I will do it. But by the gods, the desire to kill them all just for the silence is present in my bones. “Anything else?”
Please Gods, let there be nothing more.
“Er, just one thing, er, boss,” Skid replies. “The old boss asked for regular reports on London. You want that too?”
London?
I am rarely confused, but at this moment I have no idea why Bevan has been getting information about the English capital. I hide my lack of understanding behind a mask of icy boredom.
Still, I’m curious.
“Continue,” I drawl, leaning back. “I shall decide if the information is still… pertinent.”
Skid shifts, his eyes flicking to Jensen. “Minimal info this week, just what we heard through the vents. He’s still singing a lot.”
What?
“Go on,” I murmur.
“Nothing big since he bit off one of the screw’s fingers.” He shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Hmm.
Je suis intrigué.
I stand abruptly, making the three peons flinch. “The meeting is adjourned. Return to your stations.”
As they scuttle away, I am left alone in the gloom.
London?
Eventually, I walk back to the cell, suffering once more through the depressing heat and stench.
The fug slides away as once again my eyes fall upon Aurora. She’s in her cage, elegantly stretching. As she bends double, her back to me, blood rushes to le membre, pressing it uncomfortably against the ridiculous twill ensemble I’m wearing.
Putain de vie.
I lean against the doorframe, my eyes never leaving her graceful form. “Do you know of one called London, chéri?”
Aurora instantly straightens, snapping her gaze to me. “What about him? Is he alright?”
I don’t answer her question, but it’s interesting to see her immediate concern.
“Is he getting released from solitary?” she asks, eyes wide. “Gods, I fucking hope so.”
My jaw tightens to an uncomfortable degree. She has another male friend in this place? How did I not know this?
I notice that the wolf also scowls. Are we of the same mind?
“Put him out of your thoughts,” I command, picking up the breakfast tray and sliding it through the slot. “You won’t be seeing him again.”
I make a mental note to keep this oddly named “friend” of hers in solitary confinement. It seems a good idea.
“Fuck you,” she snarls. “You’re just like your father, peas in an asshole pod.”
“Do not test me, Aurora,” I growl, picking up my book.
She laughs, a bright, dangerous sound. “Test you? Poor Frank. You don’t get it, do you? I’d have to give a shit to test you, and I don’t. You are nothing to me but a bug. And the life span of a bug is short, Frank.”
I have been unresponsive to her taunting me with the English bastardization of my name, but calling me a bug?
A bug?
But on second thoughts, maybe I am a fly caught in her web.
As long as my black widow is still whole, that is all that matters.
“Let me know when you finish eating, I’ll escort you to the showers.”
She squats, half feral, as she eats the sandwich. “How long are you going to keep playing this game, Francois?”
As long as it takes, chéri. As long as it takes.