Chapter Five
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Henri
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“YOU HAVE ONE HOUR,” THE head guard muttered as he shoved Peter into one suite, dragged Ily to the next and shoved her inside, then pushed me into a room opposite.
I spun just in time to catch Ily’s eyes as a guard stepped inside with her and slammed the door.
Peter’s door shut with a loud clang.
And the two remaining guards shoved me deeper into my chosen chamber before kicking the door closed and standing by it with their arms crossed. “Wash. Your time starts now.”
“Why can’t I stay with them?”
“Wash.” The head guard—a man with a shaved head and cold black eyes—snapped. “No questions. No requests. If you don’t wash, we’ll be forced to do it for you.” He grinned. “And we won’t be gentle.”
My heart thundered with fear for Ily.
I hated her being away from me.
I’d hated the dungeons too but at least we’d been together.
Now I stood in a room decorated in beiges and blacks and it was somehow worse than the month in a dank, dark cell.
Every inch of me itched to attack the two guards blocking my way. I needed to protect Ily but...it’d taken all my strength to walk up here. My ankle ached beneath my cast, my ribs throbbed, and my vision kept popping with black bubbles.
If I didn’t sit down soon, I’d probably pass out.
Fuck!
Turning on my heel, I studied the suite.
With sandstone-coloured wallpaper and curtains, black carpets and bedding, the room seemed regal as well as oppressive.
Larger than my old quarters, I guessed—judging by how many floors we’d climbed and general location—this might be on the level beneath Victor’s residence.
High enough to do some serious damage if I leaped out the window.
Too high to be able to escape intact.
Stepping toward the bathroom to the left, I tripped over the threshold as my gaze caught mine in the copper-gilded mirror.
Jesus.
Drifting forward, I grabbed the basin and stared.
I didn’t recognise the man staring back.
Shaggy hair, thick beard, grey sprigs that hadn’t been there before, a few sores from sleeping on bare plywood with only a scratchy woollen blanket for protection, and an aura of despairing death.
My eyes were flat and dull. My nose had healed from being broken in the fight but remained slightly crooked. My cheekbones almost cut through my skin, and my cheeks which had always been hollow, now seemed especially gaunt.
I dropped my stare to my tattered black shirt and slacks. Every inch of exposed skin almost matched the material in colouring. I wore layers of grime and filth, dried blood and dirt.
“I don’t hear that shower running!” the guard shouted from the door.
Ignoring him, I reached for the tap and turned it on.
The sight of running clean water had my thirst leaping for joy. The stale rations in our water buckets had never been enough.
Dipping my head, I drank straight from the stream, sucking down mouthfuls of cool, delicious freshness until my hunger didn’t ache quite so badly.
Only once my dehydration was quenched did I stagger to the shower, fumble at my gross clothes, and strip.
My ankle and wrist casts caught on the filthy material.
The warnings not to get them wet echoing from a previous life.
But I didn’t care.
I didn’t bathe because they’d told me to.
I did it because I had to.
I couldn’t wear this stench anymore. This reminder that I’d lost that night in the cave. This constant appearance of a broken man.
I groaned in sheer ecstasy as hot water rained over me.
My balance failed as I tipped my face into the cascade, sending me careening into the black-tiled wall. Doing my best to fight through the vertigo, I pumped copious amounts of body wash into my palm and inhaled the subtle fragrance of summer and lavender.
And then I tuned everything out and washed.
I didn’t focus on what this meant.
Didn’t fear why Victor had separated us and given us a Master’s chamber to prepare in.
Didn’t worry that the cleaner I was, the more enticing I would be to anyone who wanted to touch me.
I scrubbed for me.
I rinsed away the past for me.
And as I wrapped a fluffy white towel around my far slimmer waist, I flatly refused to look at all the bruises still covering my torso or the deep wine-coloured stain covering the left side of my chest where a few of my ribs had been broken.
I forced my malnourished hand to remain steady as I reached for the razor in the drawer, tore off the paper packaging, and removed the thick hair on my face.
By the time the door opened and soft footfalls brought more company, I no longer looked like a prisoner of war but a survivor of whatever came next.
Rinsing the razor and placing it carefully by the sink, I caught my eyes and clutched the sink.
Whatever happens...it can’t break you.
Whatever he does to you...it’s just a body.
Do what Ily did, and don’t watch.
My head tipped as the weight of sickness, sadness, and sorrow almost crippled me.
“Oh good, you’re clean.”
The shock of company kept me standing.
I scowled as Dr Melanie Belford appeared on the bathroom threshold. Her gaze caught mine in the mirror and for a moment, a flicker of compassion and soul-deep pity flashed before she covered it up with businesslike impatience. “Come out here, please. I’ve set up what I need by the window.”
Sighing heavily, I padded into the bedroom and toward the small table where sunlight spilled inside. The golden rays hurt my eyes after so long in the dark. On a white cloth, a few tools waited, looking like torture devices.
“Here to start my punishment early, Belford?”
She flinched and sat down on one of the chairs. Pointing at the other, she kept her voice low, but her eyes collided with far more than what she said. “I’m going to cut off your casts.”
I sat heavily in the chair.
I didn’t want to admit it, but...I was nowhere near full strength.
Healing had robbed me of every shred of energy, and after a month of not moving past my chain’s small leash, my muscles had started to atrophy. “Don’t broken bones take six weeks or so to knit?”
She nodded and rearranged my arm as I placed the drenched cast onto the table. “Yes, usually. And in your case, with the conditions you were kept in and lack of sustenance, you’d probably need eight weeks minimum. But...”
“You’ve been tasked with making me presentable for Victor.”
She swallowed hard, shot a look at the two guards by the door, and nodded. “Stay still. This won’t take long.” Grabbing a small electric saw, she turned it on, and the high-pitched buzz replaced our awkward silence as she cut my arm free.
As fresh air reached past the itchy confines of the cast, I ached with the urge to scratch. My forearm was damp from my shower, and traces of dirt I hadn’t managed to rinse away ran in rivulets amongst my arm hair.
With a sniff, she turned off the saw, grabbed the two ends of the cast, and cracked the rest wide open.
Slipping it off my withered forearm, she eyed up the bump that hadn’t been there before.
Tossing the cast into a hazardous waste bag by her feet, she reached for her supplies on the table and used a few alcohol wipes to clean up the rest of my skin.
Her fingers were soft and gentle as she probed the still-healing break. “Your bone will have started knitting together, but putting too much pressure on it will re-fracture it. So...be careful.”
I laughed under my breath. “I don’t think it’s me you have to worry about being gentle, doc.”
She pursed her lips and didn’t reply.
I hadn’t been conscious when she’d casted me. I had scant memories of her murmuring why I had to lie still and why she poked me with painful things, but...she’d done the best she could, and I was grateful.
“Thank you, Melanie,” I whispered. “For trying to fix me.”
Her gaze shot to mine. Her lips twisted as if she wanted to say something. Shaking her head, she grabbed her saw again and dropped to her knees. Neither of us spoke as she sliced away the cast around my ankle.
The sensation of sticky grime and healing came again as she cracked it off and tossed it with the other. Shards of plaster scattered on the black carpet beneath my chair. White dust covered her fingers as she reached for another alcoholic wipe and cleaned off my leg.
Bending a little, I inspected the state of my ankle. No visible bump like my forearm, but it seemed thinner. My lower leg was as fragile as the rest of me.
Fuck, I hated this.
Hated being so hungry and weak.
Hated being collared and completely helpless to save Ily and the jewels.
Fury burned through me.
Rage and fear and despair.
Yanking my foot away from her inquisitive hands, I snapped, “I’m fine. You can go now.”
The two guards looked up. One stepped forward. “If you’re done, Dr Belford, I have orders for you to check the other two.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done,” the doctor barked. Climbing to her feet, she rummaged in her bag and turned her back on the guards.
They looked as if they’d argue but then the leader shrugged and fell back into conversation with the other blond guy, their eyes on each other, their attention not on us.
Pulling out a syringe full of something, she tapped it and yanked my arm closer.
Swiping another alcoholic swab across my veins in my inner elbow, she whispered almost too low to hear.
“This will give you energy and pain relief for a few days. It’ll replenish you a little and numb what it can, but the effects will wane.
I’ll try to give you some more before it’s gone completely. ”
Before I could ask what it was or why she was helping me, she stabbed me with the needle, dumped the contents inside me, tossed her equipment into her bag, and shot out the door.
* * * * *
“Time to go,” the guard barked, snapping his fingers as he opened the door.
Unlike down in the dungeons where we couldn’t tell how much time had passed, I’d counted the ticking clock and its minutes since Dr Belford had gone. Each one scratched at my heart, keeping me far from Ily.
Forty-seven awful minutes.
Forty-seven and now—