That morning Ada tripped me as I carried laundry up the stairs, nearly giving me a bloody nose. I barely caught myself in time. I have to get out of that place, and this gleaming piece of armor will help buy my ticket.
I hold it tight against me as I turn toward the city, picking my way through the scarred landscape. A figure looms through the mist ahead of me: a male scavenger. Tall and big but young in the face, baby fat clinging to the cheeks bracketing his crooked nose.
His eyes turn hungry when they fall on what I’m holding, greed twisting his features into an ugly mask.
“Give me that,” he says, as if he actually expects me to just hand it over.
I take a step back. “No. I found it. It’s mine.”
He scowls, stalking toward me. “I don’t give a shit. It’s mine now. Hand it over.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I look around for something—someone—to help me.
There’s nothing. I’m alone.
I stare into his hard, determined eyes. I could give him what he wants—then he’d leave me alone. But I need this too badly, and I refuse to give up what it could buy me—a way out of that house, a way to keep Evie safe. Besides, if I give into his bullying once, he’ll do it again. And again. And again. And then I’ll never be able to save enough to get free.
“No,” I repeat, my voice hard as steel.
He lunges for me, and I swing the breastplate, smashing it against his outstretched hand. He shouts in pain, but he manages to grab me with his other arm, holding tight even as my kicking and bucking send us both crashing to the ground. A shooting pain jolts up my arm as it’s trapped beneath me, but I keep clutching the breastplate. Then he rolls onto his back, taking me with him, and we’re both staring at the sky as his arm smashes down on my windpipe, pressing down hard.
He’s strangling me, squeezing every last breath out of my lungs. Shadows dance at the edge of my vision, and it feels like if I don’t get air soon, my lungs will burst in my chest.
I yank my arms up, driving down wildly with the edge of the breastplate, and feel the hard metal connect with something. The boy yells in pain and loosens his grip for a moment, enough for me to roll over and see I’ve left a deep gash in his forehead. But then his strong hands are grabbing at me again, snatching my shirt and dragging me back down toward him. He gets a hand on the breastplate, fingers sliding over it to find the best grip.
No. He can’t take this from me. I won’t let him. I need it.
A deep, fierce scream of rage erupts from my chest, and I strike down with the breastplate again, ramming the edge into his face. He screams too, his cry of agony mingling with my shout as I deliver another blow, and then another. I can’t stop, the fear and fury rolling into one unrelenting force, compelling my arm to strike down over and over again.
That rage only fades when he’s not moving anymore. My head clears enough for me to really look at him, but I can’t make out the round cheeks or crooked nose for the blood. It’s dripping onto the ground…but he’s not moving. His chest isn’t rising and falling with his breaths—it’s completely still.
When I realize what I’ve done, I drag myself off the body and vomit in the mud. My bruised throat protests as the acid burn makes me cough and splutter. I spit and wipe my face, which is coated with dirt and blood and tears, and I stagger to my feet.
The breastplate is still in my hand, edged with crimson. I’m hit with revulsion at the sight of it, and I want to throw it from me—fling it into the mists to be buried with the mud and corpses littering the plains.
But I can’t get rid of it. Not now. Not after what it cost me.
When I’m on my feet, I look down at the boy one last time. There’s only bloody pulp where his face used to be. Except through the swollen, split flesh I can still make out one bright eye, staring at me. Condemning me. Asking me if I’m satisfied with the price I made him pay so I could buy my freedom.
I wake up shouting, something that hasn’t happened to me in a long while, my throat tight as if I really had just been strangled. I breathe heavily into the darkness, trying to orient myself, then a presence caresses the inside of my mind. It’s a soothing, calming touch, but it makes me bolt upright in my bed.
“Syrus,”I gasp, outrage cutting through the lingering fog of the dream.“What are you doing?”
“I was just?—”
But I don’t give him time to answer, instead shoving his presence from my mind, hard and fast.
Howdarehe?
Slipping into my mind when I’m awake and know he’s there is one thing, but poking around in my head while I’masleep?Rage boils inside me, and before I can think about it, I leap out of my bed, pulling on a shawl and a pair of shoes.
I storm out of my room. If we’re going to argue about this—and we definitely are—then you can bet we’re doing it face-to-face.
I stride through the castle, letting my anger build with every step. I don’t know exactly where he is, but I’m not letting him back into my mind so I can ask. No, I’ll locate him the old-fashioned way.
“Syrus!” I shout, glancing into the dining room and ballroom. I head vaguely in the direction of his office and the comfortable parlor he once patched me up in. “Syrus, I swear to the goddess if you don’t get your ass here now?—”
A door to my right swings open, and he’s there, shirtless and in pajama pants, looking infuriatinglynotguilty about what I just caught him doing.
