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“Yes?”
I turn to him, dropping my voice low and soft. “I want you to put a baby inside me. I want you to marry me.”
He blinks, and those beautiful hickory brown eyes widen. I instantly regret bringing this up now. Yes, I’ve always wanted the fairytale. And when I was a little girl, I used to imagine my wedding day with Kane. But who am I to bring this up while we’re locked up? While we’re currently being starved out?
Something flashes across his face. An emotion that isn’t usually there. Something warm and hopeful. Something powerful and unmatched.
“Deal.”
We look at each other for a long moment. And I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking now. I want nothing more than to straddle him, pull his cock out of his pants, and push this stringy uniform to the side so he can fill me with everything he has. I want his baby. I want all of them to be the fathers of our children.
“That’s some potent sexual tension.”
Dessin and I turn our heads, and my eyes instantly land on Niles nodding at us proudly.
“Seriously, how are you two going to go this long without fucking?” he asks.
“Shut up, Niles,” I hiss.
The creepy music surges through the speakers as the lights flash. Every prisoner rises, putting away their utensils to leave the room.
We rise to follow with empty stomachs. Yes, it’s unfortunate. But Meridei did the same thing to me when I was her patient. And Ruth’s right; if anything, the lady-doll regimen taught us to manage our hunger.
3. Regale Hour
Skylenna
We’re ushered into a stadium. A grand hall, like a theater, but with flashing lights, mirrors, rotating red and white wheels, swinging contraptions, and a stage at the center of it all.
The prisoners spread out, lounging in the chairs, using the swinging contraptions to exercise, and socializing with each other casually.
“It’s like…recess?” Niles asks.
“Looks like it.” Warrose scans the area suspiciously. “Probably keeps the prisoners from going stir-crazy.”
“Maybe this is better than the asylum, after all,” I say.
Only something is off. The stage is stained, and the air smells of burning wood, copper, and vomit. My gaze is instantly drawn to the corner of the stage. Prisoners hover around someone moaning.
I nudge Dessin and point to it.
We move closer to investigate. Careful not to walk too fast or get too close. Low profile. Don’t draw any more attention than we already have.
Suddenly, the moans turn into throaty howls of pain. We stop a few feet from the crowd as someone moves out of the way, revealing an old man clutching his forearm for dear life as he groans through his teeth. An old woman next to him pours brown liquid over his—
“Shit,” Warrose utters, pressing a hand back to keep Ruth from taking a step forward.
The old man’s hand is missing. All that’s left is a bloody stump. A sharp, protruding bone. Shreds of flesh hanging from where his hand once was.
“Devmez ezeakaz ubne bileadéf!” the old woman yells, holding his face in her hands as the others hold him down.
“We can’t let it get infected,” Ruth translates in horror.
“How did he lose his hand?” I ask, but the question comes out as a whisper, a single breath disappearing in the nervous energy around us.
The old man vomits across the old woman’s thighs, but she doesn’t seem to notice as the others wrap his wrist in gauze.
“Courtesy of Fun House Night,” a strong female voice announces from behind us.
