Thanks to the nightmare which is François de Vaux.
I want to scream and scream and scream, instead I stare at the wall and imagine stabbing him just like I stabbed his father.
“Has your hearing been affected,ma petite? Maybe an infection from the mold? I asked if you were well rested.”
I wish his eyes were infected with mold. Spores populating in his pupils until he just can’t see anymore.
The way he stares is too intense. At Elite functions, or Drakeward dinner parties. He was always watching me.
By his father’s side.
And what’s fucking annoying, is if I watch him back, I can’t deny how physically attractive he is. I hate his face. I hate the olive-toned symmetry of it and the way his dark, light-drinking eyes seem to know every secret I’m trying to bury.
He’s beautiful in the way a volcano is beautiful—magnificent, mysterious, until it burns the life out of you. He’s physically perfect, from the curve of his lips and high cheekbones to his lithe body, and strong, perfectly manicured hands.
The complete opposite of Taliesin, who looks permanently crumpled and worn. Premature lines on his brow, and scars all over his body.
“Chérie?”
I use my normal tactic. I don’t acknowledge him.
François who?
Swinging my legs around, I place my feet on the floor and curse the fact my prison-issued briefs and bra display too much skin. To stop François perving out on my body, I dress at top speed.
Ugh. I can still feel François’s eyes on me.
Without looking around, I flip him the bird, then take my own sheet and tie it to the bars. Privacy feels even more important with him just…there.
Looking.
And I’m going to have to fucking pee, there’s no two ways about it. I can only hope François’s sensibilities are so disgusted, he’ll fuck off and leave me alone.
Or report back to his father that I’ve gone feral and there’s no hope for me. That could work.
I wash using the faucet set in the top of the toilet tank, then scrape a toothbrush around my mouth. The other end is sharpened into the kind of point that could shank a kidney.
François’s—if he gets close enough.
Taliesin moans. He’s still out cold on the hard concrete floor.
I’d tucked the privacy sheet under his head last night, but that was the best I could do to improve his situation. It’s not like I’m able to lift his bulky ass onto the cot.
Fuck.
I need a cup to get some water into him. Choices are minimal, so after a beat, I improvise.
I wriggle out of my bra, zip the coveralls back up, then soak the sweaty, stained cotton under the feeble trickles of the water spigot. “Here you go.” He grunts as water runs over his parched lips. “Easy, hold your horses,” I tell him, soaking the cloth again. This time I get my arm under Taliesin’s neck, not easy, and squeeze the fabric directly into his mouth.
“You are so domesticated these days, Aurora, altruistic.”
Again, I ignore François.
“Open your eyes, Tally.”
He groans again, and I wipe the cloth over his bruised face. “Seriously, things are really fucked up. I need you to be alright.”
Finally, Taliesin’s eyelids flicker open, the first real sign of life since the fight with François.
