Page 45 of Inflict

There was no bathroom downstairs.

Evelyn didn’t fight him, if anything, she went limp in his arms, and Connor was grateful. He could handle a lot of things. He saw men shite themselves, smelled their old piss that they had sat in for days—after being tied up and beaten. He’d watched as every drop of blood that could be taken from a body was forced out, and even cleaned up the brain matter of a man who’d had his skull torn apart by the backend of a feckin’ hammer.

Vomit, though?

Vomit just pissed Connor off.

He did not want to spend the night cleaning up vomit.

“Here you are, lass,” Connor said.

He just got Evelyn bent over the garbage can as the vomit started to spew. The stench was wretched, another reason Connor despised someone getting sick all over themselves, and he turned his head away to get a clean breath of air. It wasn’t her fault, he knew. She couldn’t help what she couldn’t handle, and he had been the one to hand her a whole container full of food without thinking about what he was doing.

He’d seen the signs.

He recognized an issue.

He’d ignored it.

This was the result.

Every action had consequences, something Connor knew all too well in his life, and unfortunately, Evelyn’s current pain was entirely caused by him. Perhaps, had he told her to eat what she could, and not simply demanded she eat what he had given, this might not have happened.

Guilt chewed through his own gut.

Evelyn’s wee frame shook in his embrace, though she barely made a sound while her vomit spilled into the rubbish bin. He was no longer shocked that she could manage something like vomiting and being silent at the same time—this was clearly how things had been taught to her.

Reward and punishment.

Food was simply a tool for a greater lesson.

She was meant to be seen only when wanted, and even then, never heard. A piece of background art standing in a corner, alive but unmoving. A trophy, perhaps, to show off when needed, to claim the skill of a good trainer.

Connor almost wished he could say his thoughts were assumptions—that truly, he knew nothing of Evelyn and the Russian she had been living with, except for the fact that’s where she had been. Yet, his own experience with his father, with slaves, and even with others who housed sold souls were staring him in the face and laughing.

“It’s all right,” Connor murmured as Evelyn’s trembling increased. Her hands grasped the edge of the bin so fiercely that her knuckles turned white. “You’re just grand, love. Take a breath and give it a second—we’ll wash your mouth out and see how you feel.”

Out of instinct alone, Connor began smoothing his palm over the red-tinted, blonde curls at the nape of Evelyn’s neck. He didn’t know how else to offer her comfort, and it didn’t seem as though his words were working very well. As he swept more of her hair off her neck, a splash of black ink made his hand freeze.

Carefully, Connor pulled back the neckline of Evelyn’s dress, and found a sickeningly familiar sight tattooed into her skin. Just below the nape of her neck, at the top of her spine where it wouldn’t be seen when covered by a shirt or dress, were two eight-pointed, black stars that Connor would bet his arse on that they matched the stars on the Russian’s chest.

Some slaves were branded, and others were not.

Slaves that were never intended to be resold into a market, for whatever reason, were often given some identifier as to their place and owner, so that should they run and be caught, they could be easily identified and then returned.

Without meaning to, Connor’s hand weaved into the tangled strands of Evelyn’s curls, his fingers tightening into the silky waves much harder than he intended. He thought if he held her closer—tighter—then she would be safe, but he didn’t know that his belief was entirely true.

Evelyn must have taken Connor’s action to mean something different, as suddenly, her shaking stopped and she stiffened before turning to face him. Her wide eyes stared up at him, frightened and remorseful all at once.

Punishment, he knew.

She was looking for it—expecting it.

She’d done something wrong in her mind, and there was no other consequence to her actions except for punishment or rewards. It was that simple.

To her, at least.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, though the words were barely breathed. He thought they sounded more like a gasping plea for mercy, and that broke his feckin’ heart. One he hadn’t realized was even still beating in his chest. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Please, don’t—”