SICK HEART by Huss, JA (nice books to read TXT) 📗

demonstrates a few punches and kicks and points to it.

I huff. Right. But I’m too hungry to argue. If I piss him off today and he decides not to feed me, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s been a long time since someone starved me. I’m not used to it anymore. In fact, I might have let myself go over the years. I might’ve forgotten what it was like to be a girl in this world I live in.

I might’ve gotten… soft.

I can’t afford to be soft. Not then, not now, not ever if I want to survive. So I suck it up and start kicking and punching.

Cort watches me for a little bit, his arms crossed over his skull-covered chest, his gray eyes mostly looking at my hands and feet and not so much my face.

I’m expecting him to correct me because I have no idea what I’m doing and this is painfully obvious, but he doesn’t. He watches, then he walks over to his bag and begins his own workout. Which looks nothing like the one I’m doing.

I slowly position myself so that I can watch him as he goes through his moves and still keep punching and kicking my bag.

This is when I realize I’m doing it all wrong.

I squint and try to decipher his punches. He’s got a combination of them. Hooks or whatever. I’m not sure what they’re called. But I copy him. Not hitting the bag hard, because that actually hurts. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to have gloves on. Or tape or something. My knuckles are bright red after only a few minutes. So I don’t put a lot of effort into the force. Instead, I just concentrate on the form.

When he moves on to kicks, I do the same thing. I watch him and notice something important. Most of the time he’s not connecting with his foot, but with his knee. I try to copy him again. And maybe it’s far from perfect, but by the time he steps away from the bag, I have better form than I had when I started a few hours ago.

He pays no attention to me at all. His gaze is directed towards the sky, distracted by something. I use this moment to study him. His body is slick with sweat, his breath still coming out quick and with effort from his workout. He runs his fingers over his head and turns to me. I have an urge to smile until I see the look on his face.

And then I hear the helicopter.

I whirl around, looking for it. But Cort has me by the arm and he’s tugging me across the platform towards the stairs. He’s not careful as he leads me back down to the prison level, and when I realize he’s going to lock me in again, I decide this is my limit.

No! I scream it inside my head. I don’t want to be left down here. I spent a lot of calories this morning. I need food!

He shoves me hard enough to make me stumble and fall, then he locks the gate and disappears back up the stairs.

Now the helicopter is loud. Directly above us. It lands, but the rotors don’t wind down.

I wait, wondering what this could mean. Did someone come for me? Is it Lazar? Did Ring of Fire decide that I won the fight and I don’t have to be here with Cort?

Oh, I hope so. Please, please, please.

And when I see Cort’s father, Udulf, appear at the top of the stairs, I become even more hopeful. It’s true. I won that fight. I am not the Sick Heart’s prize. I’m going to get on that helicopter and fly away from here and I’m never going to see Cort van Breda again.

But then I read the expression on Udulf’s face. It’s an expression I recognize. It’s an expression I know well because I grew up with a man who looked at me that same way once upon a time.

And this is when I realize my rescue fantasy is just that. A fantasy.

Because Udulf is looking at me like I’m his prize.

Like I’m his slave.

Like he is going to take me off this rig, but I definitely won’t like what happens next.

CHAPTER TEN - CORT

 

 

Fuck him.

I sign that right in Udulf’s face. Fuck you.

I’ve made it twenty-two years in his hellhole. I’m at the end now. I’ve earned this. And he’s going to come here and tell me he’s taking Anya for himself?

Fuck you. I flash my fingers in his face.

“Stop it.” He bats my hands away, snarling. “Use your voice, Cort. I’m tired of these games.”

He’s tired of the games? This motherfucker invented the game. He’s pissed because I found a new way to play and my success forced him to play along. He would never admit to knowing sign language in public because it is the language of slaves and then everyone would know he learned it to talk to me.

But he does know it. He understands every fucking word I sign.

“Where is she?”

I point to the lower levels, then flash, You’re not taking her. She’s mine.

He scoffs. “You don’t even like girls.”

That’s not even true. I like girls just fine. And I’m keeping this one because she’s my last fucking prize and I want her secrets. I want to know what’s going on inside that head of hers. I want to open her up and see what’s inside.

He’s not getting her. And anyway, I sign, She’s too old for you.

His chuckle comes out with his words. “That’s not what I want her for.”

Then what does he want her for? Not to have sex with. He and his ilk—they are some seriously sick fucks. Anya’s sex slave days have been over for quite a long time now.

This is intriguing, now that I think about it. Because Lazar kept her around too. Why? And now my father wants her for himself. Why?

What is so interesting