Peanut butter and jelly.
Again.
“Is this the only thing they serve in this five-star resort?”
“It’s the only thing available if you don’t want to go to the chow-hall,” he says, kicking off his shoes with a weary groan. “Figured you’d had enough socializing for the day.”
Suddenly, the overhead lights cut out, plunging the cell into a dim, amber glow from the safety lamps. A beat later, the heavy door at the entrance groans along its track, sealing us in.
“Get some rest, Princess,” Taliesin’s voice comes through the dark, sounding gravelly and distant. “The real work starts tomorrow.”
The real work. Playing handmaiden to the Guild monsters.
I lie back, staring up into the gloom, wishing I could see the stars, the moon—anything that isn’t made of concrete and iron.
But all I see is a gray, stained ceiling.
And all I feel is a darkness that has nothing to do with the lack of light.
7. TALIESIN
“Rise and shine, Princess,” I mutter, as I stalk back into our shared cell.
I don’t like talking in the morning. I don’t like talking in general, and having a roommate is an irritation I could do without.
At least I get to start my day in the best way possible in this shithole, outside and completely alone. Thirty minutes of personal yard time at daybreak—a private slot just for the Boss.
I run laps and pretend I’m free.
This morning was hard though, every footfall felt like someone was twisting a serrated blade between my ribs.
Not that I’d let it show. If I do, I’m weak.
If I’m weak, I’m dead.
My first four months here, after I’d challenged and beaten the previous boss, were almost a bloodbath. I don’t plan on a repeat performance.
Thank fuck Zed finally got parole. He used his Boss-status for personal gain only, the man was a cancer on this block.
Rice is another shit.
He was one of Zed’s top men—a loyalist who only pledged to me because he didn’t want to end up in the incinerator.
But he was right about one thing yesterday: the men are watching. They’re looking for a reason to stop calling me “Boss” and start calling me a traitor. I feel their eyes on my back as I pass the cells—a dozen different blades waiting for the moment I stumble.
Layla has already delivered breakfast. I push the tepid coffee and a stale sandwich toward Aurora’s bars.
She emerges from behind that pathetic gray sheet, and for a second, my breath hitches.
Her blonde hair is a tangled just-fucked mess, split lip swollen and red, and the oversized jumpsuit? The thing that’s supposed to make her blend in?
It just makes her skin look like porcelain, and emphasizes the elegance of her long neck.
Godsdammit.
She’s the picture of a vulnerable target. I find myself staring at the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, and for a second, the thud in my chest has nothing to do with my broken ribs.
It’s a sharp, unwelcome heat in my gut.
