“I said, bend over. Might as well get practiced in this position, Drakeward. It’s gonna get real familiar.”
No, no, no. no.
Bile swirls in my throat, and as I submit, it takes everything not to puke. Her gloved fingers probe and poke when none have gone before. This might be what breaks me.
In the next cubicle over, I can hear Julian screaming and cursing, his precious dignity disappearing with the fingers up his ass.
Finally, I’m shoved under a showerhead with water so cold it feels like liquid nitrogen hitting my skin.
Wump—ppp. Wump—ppp.
My heart fumbles the beat, slamming hard against that internal patch of scar tissue like a dancer tripping on a loose floorboard. I press my palm flat against the freezing wet tile of the wall, waiting for the muscle to find its rhythm, desperate to keep the panic from swallowing me whole.
The water roaring out of the rusted pipes sounds too much like the whoosh of the high-pressure breathing vents at the Havengard Medical Center.
The specialists had called it a miracle that I survived the gasoline fire at all. It fucked up my lungs before the alarms even started ringing, but the moments afterward did the real damage. My heart had kept beating in that vacuum of oxygen until the muscle itself began to suffocate.
The specialists called it "patchy fibrosis." A nice way of saying a piece of my heart turned to stone that night. Now, that patch of scar tissue sits there like a landmine. Most of the time, it’s quiet. But when I’m pushed too hard, or the freezing shock of reality hits too fast, the electrical current hits that dead spot and bounces back, dragging at my lungs until I’m starving for oxygen.
Don’t break, Rory. Not here. Please, Gods.
The water shuts off and before I can even draw a clean breath, I’m doused with a heavy chemical powder that stings my eyes until I’m half blind, the harsh white dust coating my damp skin like ash.
A bundle of cloth is shoved into my arms. “Dress,” the woman says.
The clothes are like hospital scrubs, and an ugly yellow color. At least the cheap towelling spa slippers give my feet some relief from the cold, concrete floor.
My wrists are raw, my lip is a swollen mess, and my magic is non-existent.
I’m shoved against a wall.
Flash.
This photo will be a permanent record of the fall of Aurora Drakeward.
And this is just the beginning.
Motherfuckers. I hate them all.
I see Julian being led away by the male guard. He’s dressed in deep red scrubs, looking small and broken as the heavy doors swallow him whole. But I’m turned in a different direction.
Trunchbull takes me down a corridor into a bland, industrial looking office. A pretty girl about my age sits at a desk. She also wears the yellow scrubs—and a face full of bruises.
The Trunchbull-guard grunts, checking her watch as a muffled phone rings from deep inside the inner office. “Stay put, Drakeward. Don’t even breathe.” She points a thick finger at me for a beat, then disappears through the door, leaving me alone with the girl in yellow.
The room is silent apart from the low hum of the fluorescent lights. The girl at the desk is beautiful, or she would be, if her skin wasn’t a patchwork of shadows and swelling. The bruises around her neck are in the shape of thumbprints. A collar of violent purple and sickly yellow. Her fingers tremble against a manila folder.
“What’s your name?” I whisper.
She flinches then her gaze flickers to the closed door then back at the desk surface. “Simone,” she breathes, so softly I almost miss it.
“I’m Aurora.” I take a step closer. “Who did that to you?” I gesture toward her neck.
Simone finally looks at me. Her eyes are a dull, flat brown, stripped of any life.
“The Warden likes his birds to be quiet,” she says, her voice devoid of emotion.
His birds? What does that mean?
