The humiliation is hot and heavy in my chest. I’m the Boss of the Diggers, and right now, I can’t even stand up to piss without a girl half my size bracing her shoulder under my arm. She says nothing as she helps me to the corner of the cage. I lean on her, my head hanging, as I let out what feels like several gallons.
It’s the most intimate, degrading, and honest moment of my life.
By the time I’ve settled back onto the cot, I’m shaking. I take her hand, needing the anchor. There’s a vibration humming under my skin that I can’t explain. My eyes finally focus on her face, and I freeze.
“Rory, shit… what happened to your hair? Are you okay?”
Reaching out with a trembling hand, I brush the air near her ear. The long, golden silk is gone, replaced by a short cut that makes her eyes look twice as large and ten times as fierce. It’s a butcher’s job, raw and uneven, but strangely beautiful.
“Me? I’m fine, considering. And hair is just hair.” She scoots closer, her ice-blue eyes scanning the empty cell doorway. Her voice drops to a bare breath against my ear. “But we need you back, Tally. You’ve been out for two days.”
Two days. Fuck.
“And… I think there’s something going on with François,” she continues.
“Right, the French guy,” I rasp, the memory of the yard hitting me. “The fight… fuck.” I try to sit up straighter, but it’s pure agony. “Tell me.”
“He’s already using Danny and his creeps as enforcers. And he just ordered Jensen to lower the heat. The Guild will be freezing by lights-out.”
A low, guttural growl rips out of me, triggering another cough. “That’s fucking insane. He’s going to start a war just to stop a bead of sweat?”
“Pretty much.”
This is bad news. You don’t fuck with the heat. Quo is a powder keg, and this new bastard is currently playing with a blowtorch. I take a sip of water, but it makes my stomach roll. “Where is he? The French asshole.”
“Off with Jensen,” Rory replies, her eyes filling with something far too close to fear for my liking. The memory of her huddling against me on the bleachers when he arrived flashes back.
“You know him, don’t you?” I ask, watching her expression darken. “How?”
“François de Vaux is Crankshawe’s son. He’s the fucker who stepped in and stopped me from stabbing his father. My guess is he’s here to protect the family property.” She moans and smacks herself on the forehead. “For fuck’s sake, am I supposed to be his stepmother?”
The thought makes the beast at the base of my skull snap its jaws.
“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter. It’s not a boast; it’s a biological necessity my blood is screaming for.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Rory says, her fingers digging into mine. “I think he’s more powerful than he lets on. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m convinced he has some kind of magic in here.”
Before we can talk more, the salty scent of broth hits the air. Layla and Sky march into the room, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and fresh worry.
“Movement in the cage! Hallelujah,” Layla calls out, sliding a tray through the gap. It’s the usual thin soup, but with two thick slices of bread.
Stopping short, Layla’s gaze snags on Aurora. Her jaw practically hits the floor as she takes in her new look. “Holy shit, Barbie. Who let the lawnmower loose in your cell? You look like you went five rounds with a pair of rusty hedge shears.”
Sky leans in, her eyes wide as she reaches through the bars to touch a particularly short, uneven clump near Aurora’s ear. “It’s pretty, I like it. I mean, unless… Did the Frenchman do this to you?”
“I cut it myself,” Aurora snaps, though her hand instinctively flies to the back of her neck where the hair is shortest. “And it’s fine. I needed it gone.”
“Fair play,” Layla grunts, finally turning her attention to me. “At least you don’t look like a doll anymore, more like a pixie.” She gestures to the tray. “Eat up, Tally. Your ‘extra fromThe Walking Dead’look is getting old. Poor Barbie here has been working overtime playing nursemaid.”
“Not like I had anything else to do,” Aurora says, pointedly ignoring Layla’s smirk. “Did you hear about François’s new ruling? From the second claxon to the third—the shower block will now be female only. No men within ten yards of the door or they answer to him.”
Layla’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Wash my bits without a shiv at my back?” She lets out a short, sharp whistle. “I might actually start liking the prick.” Seeing my scowl, she shrugs. “Just kidding, Boss.”
“What’s the word, Lay?”
“Fucking madness, basically.” Sky is tugging at Layla’s sleeve, her eyes darting toward the corridor. “We’ve gotta split. I’ll come back later. Eat some soup, Tally. We need you fighting fit.”
Fighting fit? That’s a joke. Just this short conversation has exhausted me. I close my eyes, and within minutes, I’m once more running through the forest of my dreams.
