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I was caged in like a beast. I hadn’t been out of this room in ten months. The only outlet I had was food, exercise, and Cem’s accounts.
I succumbed to the nightmares about Neri because I needed sleep for mental health.
I avoided the urge to think about her during the day because I needed to focus on how to return to her.
I refused to be a hypocrite for the rest of my life.
If Neri could heal from rape, then...I could heal from this.
So what if I’d been violated?
So what if I was a prisoner, and a piece of me was missing?
I repressed what I couldn’t face and strived to fix what I could. My mind created more and more compartments. More walls and locks where I could and could not go. This was just another thing I would deal with once I was free to do so.
I’d made the most of my incarceration.
I was breaking out next week.
I’d overheard the guards talking about a big shipment arriving—a shipment of what, I didn’t have a fucking clue—but Cem would be away, which meant he’d take most of his guards with him, and those left behind were so used to me being a meek, one-legged prisoner that they wouldn’t see me coming.
My hands curled as I shot a look at my bed. Beneath the mattress, I’d hidden six butter knives that I’d painstakingly sharpened with the scissors from the accounting box and toothpaste for grit. I only stole a knife when a particular guard was on duty—a non-observant one.
My plan was to stab as many men as I could, as quickly as I could, then steal a gun or two.
In a few days, I was leaving and never coming back.
My blood burned with hope at calling Neri—telling her how much I fucking loved her, then jumping on a boat and vanishing somewhere safe.
Throwing me the face towel I used to wipe off my sweat while I trained, Cem wrinkled his nose. “You need a shower.”
I grinned. “Am I offending you, baba?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m glad you’re back to your old snarky self, Aslan, but I wouldn’t push me too far.” He glanced at the many workbooks I’d been given. His current ledgers and illegal activities teetered in different piles, some tabulated and balanced while others waited to be opened. Resting on the ornate desk beneath the window, an ancient laptop slept, its silver casing decorated with sticky notes from previous accounts.
Cem gave it to me the day I agreed to run his books.
The first thing I’d done was try to message Neri via the internet, only to find the WI-FI chip had been removed. It was as useless as a paperweight. The only thing it could do was type up Cem’s handwritten archaic notes, turning them into neat and brightly-coloured spreadsheets.
It was the one aspect of his business I wasn’t appalled by.
Numbers weren’t people.
Figures weren’t slaves.
I could pretend I was working for Griffen Yule again. Thanks to numbers, I was more centred and calmer than I’d been in a while.
“Why are you here?” I curled my upper lip, swiping at my sweat. I could balance on one leg as easily as I used to stand on two. It’d taken time. Those phantom twinges still happened as my missing toes tried to dig into the carpet, and I swore I felt the same breeze curling around my right leg. On the days when the black smog of depression tried to suck me under, I’d glower at the wheelchair in the corner and want to give in.
But then I’d renew my efforts and double down on my determination to get free. I’d do whatever it fucking took to get out of here.
“Why don’t you use the walking frame?” Cem asked. “Or better yet, try that prosthetic.”
Tossing down the towel, I shrugged back into my white t-shirt. “I don’t want to rely on anything that can be taken away from me.”
He scoffed. “No one would take away your leg.”
I caught his eyes. “You already did that.”
