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

to die at the end of the fight between Cort and Pavo. And I lived instead. That’s not good either. When the men in my world make a plan for someone, they make it with a goal in mind.

So if I was supposed to die, and didn’t, then I messed up someone’s plan. And I will pay for that sooner or later.

Cort points to the stairs and for a moment I think he’s going to take me back down to the prison level. But he points up and when he moves towards the stairwell, still holding my arm, I follow willingly.

I want to eat, but the kitchen is on the training level. But the hose is on the top level. And I can barely stand the stench wafting off me, so a shower—even a harsh one that stings my skin—is worth the wait for dinner.

When we reach the top he leads me around the birds and past the old mechanical building to the fire hose, but he stops and frowns at me, then points to the cistern mounted on the roof. He’s tall enough so that when he reaches up, he can tap the water line clearly visible through the semi-opaque white tank.

Well, shit. I frown. There’s not enough water for a hose down, I guess. I don’t know how long we’ll have to be here. But it must be a while because the cistern is huge and I would guess that there are a couple hundred gallons left. There are six of them, actually. But the rest are already empty.

Still, a couple hundred is a lot if you’re just drinking it. But that bath the first night—that must’ve used up fifty or sixty. Plus the hose down.

There will be no more baths. And no more hoses, either, from the looks of it.

I huff, irritated. Why did he bring me up here if we can’t even wash?

He shoots me a crooked grin, but I don’t find it charming. I smell. Bad. And now that I know I can’t get clean, I’m noticing the pain in my stomach from not eating. I frown deeper.

Cort tugs me over to the wall and then points up to a shower head.

My mouth makes a little o. And then I smile. When I look at him he’s… what? What is that look? Smugness? He’s definitely feeling smug.

But his hands are flashing at me. So I watch, carefully, trying to understand what he’s telling me.

I think he’s saying it needs to be quick. That makes sense. He keeps pointing to the showerhead, then him. Then me. He holds up one finger. Then two.

Meaning—I’m not supposed to be here. I am eating his food, and drinking his water, and if we’re not careful, we’re going to run out of both.

I nod, understanding, then I wave him towards the shower in a Be my guest gesture. It’s his water, not mine.

But to my surprise he leads me over to the shower with him. Then he pretends to take off an invisible shirt and points to mine.

Oh. I see.

I don’t even bother fighting this. I take the shirt off. Because this is not my shirt. These are not my shorts, this is not my water, that is not my food, and let’s face it, this is not even my body.

For every moment of my life, someone has owned me.

At some point these men—these monsters who run my world—were given dominion over me. Over all of us. We have no rights.

Not even girls like me. Girls who lived under a king’s roof. Who ate a king’s food. Who drank a king’s water and wore a king’s clothes. We are nothing and no one.

We are disposable.

I came to terms with that reality a long time ago.

I am not a girl. I am not a woman. I am not even human to them. I am nothing to them.

But that’s not all there is of me.

There is one piece left. One sacred piece of me that they can’t have. No matter how hard they try, they cannot take my silence.

She is all I have left. The spirit of me inside my head. The one who can’t talk, or walk, or do anything but go along for the ride.

So when I take the shirt off, I immediately go for the shorts. And then, moments later, I am naked.

When I look up to meet Cort’s gaze I find him once again frowning. I sigh and look down at my feet.

He takes my hand again, but instead of leading me over to the shower, he just… holds it for a moment. A long enough moment to make me look up and see what the hell he’s doing.

His eyes are locked with mine. He does not look down at my body. And then he flashes his fingers at me with deliberate intent, his pointer and middle fingers snapping down on to the pad of his thumb.

No. That’s what his fingers say. No. He signs it again. And his eyes are angry now.

I don’t know what he wants from me, so I just shrug and resume looking at my feet. He stands there for another long moment, then he sighs.

We seem to do a lot of sighing.

Are we frustrated? Or tired? Or giving up?

I don’t know.

Maybe for me, it’s all three.

CHAPTER TWELVE - CORT

 

 

 

I have seen monsters in my day. Hell, I’ve become one.

I fight the king’s fights. I kill the king’s enemies. I accept the king’s prize and I live under the king’s rules.

I do the king’s bidding.

It’s a bad lot in life, no doubt. But it’s nothing compared to what some do for the king. And I’m starting to get the feeling that Anya was one of the some.

She has done things and she will never forget them.

It would be easy to assume Anya is one of the strong ones. She has made it longer than any other slave in her king’s house. What is she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She might even be as