Chapter 11 #3
The warrior is waiting for my reaction, for my tears to spring to life, for my body to curl up in the foetal position, my hands to smack onto my ears and shield myself from the laughter and the clatter.
But I just stare back at him, as hollow as I feel.
His mouth twists, on the verge of a sneer aimed down at me, before he turns his cheek.
Glass leans aside and offers the purple bottle.
He snatches out for it, harsh, and his mouth is still twisted as he swigs the sour wine.
Glass is freed of the bottle but doesn’t retreat back to Shark.
Looking right at me, her mouth curves before she darts a wink at me—and not a heartbeat after, I swerve my gaze to the mist and pretend she doesn’t exist.
I watch the steam ribbon and uncoil through the air. I watch the ripples of water disturb the calm for so long that the shouts of the man have turned into screams, drawn-out, eternal—and I don’t need to look back to know he’s being outright killed now.
It’s written all over the next captive’s greenish face; a woman who hands out bowls of white rice and black beans and tinned tuna.
Her steps are slow, unwilling, over the rocks as she passes out the bowls to Rainforest, then Shark, then Glass—until she hands over one to the cold warrior, but not to me.
I sit through the meals that the fae either devour, like Shark, or pick at, like Glass.
Beside me, the cold one eats between swigs of wine and words to the other fae around the pool.
I’m forgotten completely, and eventually, a blanket of quiet starts to drape over the hot springs.
Chatter dies, laughter fades, screams silence, and soon, it’s nothing more than grumbled murmurs in the distance and the constant rush of the river.
Most of the camp is asleep or drifting off.
I would join them in that if it wasn’t for the acidic wave in my gut, that familiar bile burn starting to crawl up my chest.
The pile stacked between my boot and his is peppered with food. Nothing substantial, not like what the fae just ate, but some chocolate bars, a packet of crisps, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s supposed to taste like caramel but just tastes like dirt.
The temptation is churning my gut.
Will I be tortured like that man if I sneak some food for myself?
The question lingers, but I don’t act on it.
All I do is swallow back the bile.
The fae on the other side of the pool find their sleep. Glass is curled up, facing the steam, but Shark and Rainforest are on their backs, fists loose around the handles of daggers.
My hand finds my belly.
I hold, firm, as if I can silence the faint snarling of my acidic hunger. It’s quiet, too quiet for another human to hear, but the hearing of the fae is a lot fucking sharper, and my grumbling stomach is as loud as a foghorn to them.
But I can’t stop the faint burp from bubbling up my throat. My face twists against the singe and I turn my cheek to my knees.
And my chest constricts.
Cold eyes, the hue of iceberg lettuce, are aimed down at me. There’s a faint frown etched into the marble grooves of his brow, a deep consideration.
Then, slowly, he reaches for the boulder on his right, just above the pile of my things, and he pinches the edge of the bowl.
My lashes flutter, a bolt of hope spearing through me.
I unravel myself, sitting upright.
The warrior’s movements are slow, unsure, and his eyes don’t leave mine as he brings the bowl around.
He offers it to me.
My mouth floods as I look down at the leftovers.
It isn’t much, but it’s a good few spoonfuls, and that’s more than what I have in my stomach now.
My gaze is cautious as I drag it up to his.
There’s care in the way I take the bowl, a gentle touch, polite and grateful, but once I have it, and I face the threat of him taking it away, changing his mind, I scarf it down.
It’s not much.
But it’s enough to ease the sickly hunger in me.
I pick out every last spec, until the bowl looks clean, and it’s a battle against my own urges to lick the fucking sides.
I’m contemplating it, licking the bowl, when his hand reaches out for the left pile—and he starts to pack it all back into my bag.
I slide the bowl aside, then just watch his orderly, systematic packing method.
He layers everything.
Clothes first, the socks, the spare underwear set that’s rolled up, a t-shirt I haven’t worn in over a month, and honestly I forgot it was still in there. Then he adds in the soda cans, pads them with a scarf, then the chocolate bars—and I realise he has a similar packing method to my own.
Clothing pads the noise.
I’m not grateful.
It’s for his own benefit, the benefit of this unit, not for mine. This guy doesn’t give a shit about me, my life, my survival. He can force powder down my throat, feed me his scraps, and I won’t waver in what I know.
I’m just a promise he made.
And I don’t trust his word.
So no matter how strongly the question is burning on my tongue, no matter the gaze I sear into his satchel, I don’t ask about the one possession I want in my bag.
The CB radio.
He can keep the fucking inhaler, I don’t care, I just want that radio back in my hands, in my bag, in my control.
I don’t even know if I’ll reach Bee on the other side, if she’s still there, or she’s even still alive.
Part of me doesn’t want to find out.
The warrior packs my bag neater than I ever have, and just as he lures the zip closed, glass glints at me from the fire.
The female warrior is awake.
Huddled, facing the steam, her gaze is piercing into the warrior at my side, the faintest etching of a frown on her brow—then she flicks her stare to me.
I turn my cheek to her.
The cold one kicks my bag aside before reaching for his own. He tugs out a leather-bound book of sorts.
Does this monster never sleep?
The other fae seem to rest more than he does.
And even though I spent all that time in a fever dream on the cart, however long it was, I’m still just so fucking tired that I don’t fight it for long—I fall asleep way too quickly for a human among beasts.