Chapter Three #2
There was no answer, and after long moments in silence, he realized she was asleep. Already. He didn’t know how he felt about that, like she’d decided he was safe as a heated blanket. But he felt her body go lax and he let out a silent laugh.
I never really held Pru like this.
He’d always been in a hurry to disengage, afraid of bonding to her, needing her, before he had his mother’s blessing.
In trying to walk the middle path, he’d ended up wounding everyone, himself included.
Because his mother had certainly noticed his distance and resentment, the way he avoided her company and dodged her nagging.
And in the end, she died without ever seeing the grandchild she wanted so desperately.
Dammit, I wish I could sleep as easily as Rowena.
Probably her conscience was clear. That might have something to do with it.
Slay constantly looped on all the shit he’d done wrong, the way it piled up until everything broke wide open, like a trash bag bulging with his unresolved issues.
Hindsight gave him a lot to reflect on, but it changed nothing.
I’m still here. No escape from this predicament or my own brain.
To his astonishment, Rowena kicked him in the shin, hard. Then she did it again, fighting in her sleep, or maybe running. Given what she’d confided about her history with that bastard, he didn’t want to imagine what she was dreaming.
“Shhh,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ve got you. Nobody’s getting by me, so you can settle down.”
Against the odds, she seemed to hear and believe him, even in her sleep.
His chest tightened because he hadn’t expected a simple reassurance to have any effect on her lasting trauma.
But Rowena quieted, her breath coming soft and steady.
And that success fed a hunger that he hadn’t even known he was nursing.
The feeling flared to life like a river swollen with weeks of rain.
Yes. This. More.
Slay wanted to be vital to somebody, as a friend or a protector.
Didn’t matter a damn how she saw him. His hand trembled when he raised it to touch her hair, far too light for her to feel it.
Since she’d agreed to share body heat, it didn’t feel like an intrusion.
The strands slipped through his fingers like moonlight, the softest thing he’d ever felt.
Carefully, he wrapped a length loosely around his fist, and only then did he manage to get to sleep.
He woke to a boot in the ribs, Timms wading among the prisoners, kicking at random. On instinct, he shielded Rowena who was still cuddled against him. Even under these circumstances, he battled a baffling pleasure that she’d stayed close all night long.
“Get up, you lazy fucks! You’re late!”
Since the sixth bell was ringing this moment, that was utter bullshit, but he knew better than to pick a fight with Timms, who acted pissed off already.
Another guard joined Timms, and the duo herded their prisoners to the mess, where they got a pitiful ration of gruel and bitter beer.
Those provisions wouldn’t keep Slay alive long term.
He’d already lost critical muscle mass, and soon he wouldn’t have the energy to shift.
There was a terrible logic in this deprivation.
Otherwise the Golgoth in the undercity might muster the energy for defiance, change to their demon forms, and run amok.
We need better food. And more of it.
Maybe it was possible to work through smugglers and make that happen, but it would take contacts and resources he didn’t possess. That was why he’d allied with Rowena; he had to believe that he’d met her for a reason.
Keeping his eyes down, he ate what they gave him and drank the beer.
Rowena startled him by tipping a portion of her food into his bowl.
His eyes cut to hers, and out here with all the lanterns lit, signifying daytime, though it was still fearfully dim, he could see that she had deep gray eyes with swirls of silver.
Her hair was platinum and gilt in equal measure, long enough that the ends brushed her hips.
A little shock went through him, powerful and inexplicable.
With some primitive part of himself, he grasped the tyrant’s obsession.
She possessed a haunting beauty, the sort that snared the senses.
Slay could well imagine her luring sailors to their doom or driving people mad with desire.
Quickly he looked away, not wanting to reveal those thoughts. They were deeply unwelcome and not at all like him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“No talking! Finish up and get your asses to the workshop,” Timms shouted.
The guards didn’t always do this, only when they had a new arrival like Rowena. Normally prisoners moved about the undercity with the illusion of freedom, though the consequences for deviating from routine were swift and painful.
En masse, the group ate quickly, were given a few moments to use the stinking holes designated as waste receptacles, and then they presented themselves for another day of work.
Until his capture, Slay had never used a sewing machine in his life.
Now, he was close to a fucking expert and his production rates stayed high.
Dresses, shirts, trousers, he could stitch together anything.
And they expected folks to keep at it, no matter what.
Once, a little girl had gotten her hand caught in her machine, endless blood and screaming, and the guards hauled her away while shouting at the others, “Get back to work!”
In Ash Valley, he’d assumed that Golgerra was hell and his internment hadn’t changed his mind.
The upper tiers hid the poverty of the undercity with layers of luxury and excess, but the whole place needed to be purged, like Rowena said.
Some divides were too big to cross with words alone.
To end this nightmare and free the prisoners, blood had to be spilled and the ruling class cast down.
The hours crawled by as they always did. At twelve bells, they were allowed a short break to dine on coarse bread and more bitter beer.
I had no fucking idea that anyone lives like this.
In painting all the Golgoth as monsters, Slay realized his fellow Animari had let the rest down. Nobody deserves this. Hell, we treat murderers better in our holds. Not that it was easy to kill an Animari; that shit took careful planning and execution, special poisons and treated weapons too.
As he settled with his meagre meal, Rowena joined him. Once again, she broke off a portion of her food and offered it. Slay raised a brow.
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
“It’s part of the pretense.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You said that to be convincing, you need to be territorial. This is a cultural difference. In the undercity, you show your regard for someone by sharing your rations. It means you care for them more than your own life.”
Though Slay knew damn well she was faking, his foolish heart still skipped a beat.