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“Will she be okay?” Peter asked, his voice cracking with guilt.
“She’ll be fine. She just needs to sleep it off.”
“Yeah, for the two hours left of the night.”
Dr Belford stepped away. “I guess you better get to sleep quickly then. You both need some rest.”
Peter nodded and went to unwrap me from my cocoon.
“Wait.” Dr Belford placed a hand on his bare arm, studying the cuts she’d already tended on his skin. “You’re shaking, Pete. Did something else happen?”
He scoffed under his breath. “Nothing that will kill me. Unfortunately.”
“Did Victor make you serve again?” Her lips twisted in disgust. “Knowing what Master K did to you?”
“He doesn’t know. He never wants to know. He sees I’m still standing, and he’s satisfied.” He hung his head. “And don’t worry. He only made me blow him. That I can handle. Nothing a little finger down my throat when I get back to our quarters won’t fix. At least he didn’t fuck me. That…that would’ve been agonising.”
With a wince, Dr Belford whispered, “Use that numbing cream I gave you. Rub it in. I know you have a thing against suppositories but I’m telling you—”
“I have enough people sticking things up my ass without me joining in.” Peter chuckled blackly.
“Regardless, insert one for the next few days, and whatever tearing you’re suffering from will heal far quicker.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her concern away. “I’ll survive. I always do.”
Not believing him, Dr Belford glanced at me. “Did her Master have intercourse with her?”
“Yep.” Peter shuddered. “Hard.”
Cupping my chin, Dr Belford filled my faltering vision. “Did you split? I’m aware Peter doesn’t want to give you any more drugs, but I have others as well as psychostimulants. Paracetamol, ibuprofen, codeine. I even have liquid morphine…when the occasion calls for it.”
I didn’t answer her.
The effort was too much to swallow and blink and speak.
“I’ve got some stashed downstairs. If she wants some later, I’ll give them to her,” Peter said quietly.
“Okay.” Stepping back, she grimaced. “In that case, off with you both. Sleep is the best healer, so go get some.”
“Hear that, Ily?” Peter grinned far too wide for my benefit. “Chalne ka samay ho gaya.” (Time to go.)
The Hindi words sank into my cotton wool head, reminding me that I’d implored in it, chanted in it, begged in it.
It’d been as useless as English because I was still here, still trapped, still lost and alone and so, so afraid.
But I didn’t cry.
Didn’t cry.
I shivered as Peter stole my blanket and folded it neatly back into place on Dr Belford’s couch. Taking my icy hands, he guided me off the table, then tucked me like a terrified naked duckling under his wing and guided me through the citadel.
The journey went unnoticed.
The chilliness of the morning utterly unable to match the frostiness of my soul.
We met no one.
Heard no one.
Just two bleeding ghosts in the night.
The entire time we walked, Peter stayed silent. He didn’t try to pry me from my fugue, and I didn’t try to offer him comfort.
Our silence did that for us.
It cloaked us and made us invisible.
By the time we’d climbed down all the stairs and entered a familiar corridor, I didn’t want to be around others.
I just wanted to be around him.
I burrowed into his chest.
He hugged me tight as he pushed open the entrance to the slave quarters.
The huge carved door swung wide.
Warmth from sleeping bodies welcomed us. The soft snores of those in sweet oblivion made me viciously jealous.
I drifted toward the huge room holding a sea of white-shrouded beds. I could vaguely make out the one that Peter had said was mine. Smooth and empty, beckoning me to tumble atop it and forget.
Forget.
I needed that.
Badly.
So I went.
“Wait.” Grabbing my wrist above my cuff, Peter tugged me to a stop.
I stopped.
I blinked.
But I didn’t cry.
Didn’t cry even though a million tears pressed like daggers behind my eyes.
Didn’t cry even though every word, every breath, every gasp and heartbeat throbbed and ached and burned with sorrow and grief and misery.
I blinked again as he cupped my cheek and guided me to the left. “Come with me.”
I followed.
Padding barefoot and bare, caped in goosebumps and scribed by Henri’s wounds, I had no free will left.
Tugging me past the kitchen with its huge fridge full of fruits and vegetables, past the monstrous-sized bathroom with iridescent tiles shimmering from the floor to ceiling, he didn’t stop as we skirted the wardrobe large enough for a Broadway show, morbidly depressing with only negligées and lingerie on neat tidy hangers.
Finally, he pushed open the door at the end of the jewel’s private corridor.
A room I’d never entered.
“In here.” Slapping the switch by the door, I flinched as rows upon rows of illumination flickered on, dancing over a treasure box of gold, gems, and jewelry.
The drugs in my system painted a hulking dragon in the corner. Smoke curling from its scaly-purple snout, its horn-tipped tail slinking around the many, many drawers and baskets full of priceless loot.
