He has no idea. If I were as fragile as he thinks, I would have dissolved into the concrete weeks ago. Looking at him, immaculate even in this dump, makes my skin itch. He’s like a visual reminder of everything I hate about my old life.
He turns, giving his fingers an entitled snap. A moment later, Danny’s greasy face pokes into the room.
“Boss? You called?”
“I require several things. Food, coffee, and a pitcher of clean water and cup, not the revolting recycled filth that runs out of these cisterns. Oh, and two pillows and another sheet—and for the Gods’ sake, a hairbrush for Aurora.”
Danny casts a glance at me, and I see the panic written all over his face. Yeah, good luck getting that list fulfilled, you shitbag. You can’t exactly order room service in the Digger block.
“Er, Boss, that’s quite, er, a tall order. Like, hard to come by stuff. I’ll need something to trade.”
François’s eyebrow raises. He looks bored, but there’s a stillness to him that tells me Danny is about three seconds away from a very bad day.
“And why is that my problem?” François steps forward and flicks Danny on the forehead. He yelps and stumbles back against the doorframe.
“Run along now,” François says softly. “And don’t disappoint me.”
Danny scuttles away, off to ruin someone else’s morning just to save his own skin.
François turns to me, looking smug. “You see? I’ve been here half a day and already I have improved your standard of living. You can be assured this is just the beginning of the adjustments I will make.”
“You realize he’ll probably go and steal or fight someone smaller than him to take their stuff for trading?”
François shrugs, because of course he doesn’t care about that. “I am the Bossman now. My wishes will be accommodated, I care not how it happens.”
Arrogant asshole douche bastard twat.
I want to scream it at him, but I don’t. Words are just noise to a guy like him. If I want to hurt him, I’ll have to use the only thing he seems to value: me.
I crouch down, making sure François has a front-row seat to the show, and stroke the back of Tally’s hand, my fingers lingering on his scarred knuckles.
His hand twitches in response—just a tiny movement of his index finger against my palm. “Come back to me, baby,” I murmur, putting loving devotion, which is not 100% fake, into my tone. “I need you so badly.”
Glancing up, I see François gritting his teeth.
Ha.Score one for the cage dwellers.
Leaning over, I press my lips to Tally’s forehead. His skin is hot, radiating a fever. “Wake up soon, my love.”
François spins on his heel, his shadow sweeping over us as he disappears out of the cell.
Wump—ppp. Wump—ppp.
Game to me.
But playing psychological chicken with Thomas Crankshawe’s son, while my protector is half-dead on the floor, is not going to be easy. How many more sets are there before the match is won?
Because right now, it feels like the real nightmare is only just beginning.
20. TALIESIN
The world isn’t concrete and iron bars anymore. It’s pine needles and damp earth.
It’s running through the woods so fast my paws barely touch the ground.
Paws.
I’m a shadow with teeth, free and fierce—with paws. What the fuck!
