Page 36

After a long pass through the lighter to sterilize the needle, I thread the still-warm metal through his skin, watchful for any sign that he might throw me across the room with the pain of it.

Not a single twitch in response.

“I meant relative to being decapitated. I’m not quite skilled enough to sew a head back on its shoulders.”

Another tic of his jaw.

I tighten the stitch and line the needle for the next one, pushing it through the unusual thickness of his tough skin. “Do you regret it yet?”

“Regret what?”

“Saving my life?”

“You haven’t been here long enough, if you think I spared your life.”

“You’re suggesting Remus is as bad as the mutation that would’ve torn me limb from limb?”

He sits quietly for a moment, as if contemplating the question. I get a sense he’s a man who chooses his words wisely. “It would’ve raped you. Dragged you to a makeshift nest and tried to impregnate you.” When his eyes meet mine, there’s an unsaid conclusion that he doesn’t have to speak aloud.

In essence, exactly what Remus has planned for me.

I sneer at that, going to work on the next wound, his troubling words a distraction I can’t shake as I try to think of something else. Something less horrifying. I don’t bother to say anything else to him, up until I finish the stitching of his last wound, and when I push to my feet, his blood is all over my hands and my white dress.

He seems to take notice of it, his eyes tracking from my hands down to the flowy skirts. It’s then I note the pale, honey color of his irises beneath long, inky black lashes.

Striking.

Beyond their pretty hues that gleam when the light hits just right, though, is a sharpness, the kind of focused intelligence that doesn’t belong trapped in a cage like a mindless beast. A telling acuity that has me feeling vulnerable in spite of his restraints. The man is no idiot, no matter what he might try to convey.

No. I get a sense he’s biding his time for something here.

No longer tied up in the distraction of his wounds, I catch a whiff of his body odor and turn my head to crinkle my nose.

Abandoning my supplies, I shuffle toward the door, and find the guard perched on his stool, smoking. “Excuse me?” The sound of my voice seems to break his attention, as he stamps out his cigarette and hustles to meet me at the door.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, but can I trouble you for some soap? I need to clean up some of the blood.”

“Sure, sure. Be right back.”

Twisting back around, I catch sight of the shackles chaining Titus to the wall, and when the guard returns with a bar of soap, I jerk my head toward them. “Any chance we can remove those?”

“Nah. Not while you’re in here.” Keeping his back to Titus, the guard leans into my ear and lowers his voice. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I wouldn’t take any chances.”

Even though I think it’s cruel to leave him chained, I nod. “Fine.”

I return to Titus, who now stares off at the ceiling as though the cracks there might open to reveal a bright blue sky overhead. Kneeling at his side as before, I hand him the bar of soap. “In case you’d like to wash.”

He punches out a fist, snapping the chain taut, and I startle at the clank of metal. “Hard to do anything shackled to a wall.”

“May I help?”

“If it bothers you so much.”

“I just thought it might … feel better, is all.” I dip the cloth I used earlier into the water now pink with blood, then lather the soap. Whatever they use isn’t the sweet scented soap that we buy at the market square back in Szolen. This is more of a curd soap, typically made of lye. Nan sometimes used it to clean blood, as it’s more abrasive. “May I?”

Rolling his shoulders back, he turns away from me. “Knock yourself out.”