“Wow, that’s direct. Hm. Let me think… I don’t know that I’ve ever been asked to sum myself up like this before.”
The scrutiny intensified as they spoke. Other prisoners would sell them out in a heartbeat if they overheard any talk of rebellion. “It would be better if we spoke privately.”
“Here?” Slay glanced around their accommodations with a dubious air.
“There’s an alcove around to the side. Too narrow for sleeping but we can talk without being observed at least. The guards know about it so you can’t use it to kip off work, but the others…” She jerked a chin at a prisoner whose gaze skittered away when she glared. “Won’t bother us. Come on.”
I’m not a victim anymore. I’ve been taught to read. To resist. To fight. Maybe if she chanted that in her head often enough, she’d fully believe it, no longer fighting echoes of her past that left her feeling impotent. Besides, she wasn’t a prisoner. Not truly.
The Animari followed her without question, and really, she needed to talk to him about that. Because people in the undercity would turn in the blink of an eye, treachery rewarded by a little more grain in their ration pack. For now, though, his faith served her purpose. She led them to the niche she’d mentioned, more like a fissure in the wall barely big enough for the two of them. It was dark inside, so she couldn’t make out his features.
He seemed to be leaning against the wall, giving her as much space as possible. “You wanted me alone. Here I am.”
“Be careful who you talk to,” she warned. “You can trust me, but you’ve no way to verify that. If you go around mouthing off about rebellion—”
“They’ll kill me,” he finished.
“As long as you know. A while back, before Prince Alastor liberated me, there was an underground—”
“The whole damn city’s underground,” he cut in.
Rowena stifled an impatient sigh. “Would you listen?”
“Sorry, go ahead. I should put that in my self-assessment. Impulsive, don’t think before I talk. Hot-headed.”
That was way more honest than people usually were. In her experience, folks were more likely to gloss over their faults and polish their strengths to a dazzling shine.
“Noted,” she said. “Anyway, I had contacts with people who were slowly laying plans. But before anything came to fruition, they were betrayed. Mass executions. I would’ve been among them, if not for Prince Alastor.”
“Saving you like a hero in a storybook.”
Rowena glared in his general direction, assuming he meant that in a mocking sense, but in the end, she decided not to quarrel with a new ally. It didn’t matter if he made fun of her for idolizing the exiled prince. There was much to admire—from Prince Alastor’s kindness, his dedication, his determination to do right by his people, no matter what it cost him. She’d seen the consequences time and again, the result of a body pushed too far by his implacable will.
“The point is, I propose that we comply with all instructions and act resigned to our fate while I put out feelers to see if the old movement survived the purge. We can’t do this alone.”
“Understood. I’ll be a model prisoner,” he promised.
To her mind, that wrapped everything up for the time being, but she kicked the convo back to him out of courtesy. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?”
Slay decided that sounded like a challenge, as if Rowena had already decided that he was the brawn of this operation.
“Fair is fair,” he said. “You asked me to catalog myself for your benefit. Shouldn’t you do the same?”
“That’s a valid point.” She paused, and when she bit her lip, thoughtful, he could see her perfectly well in the dark, another benefit of jaguar senses.
In fact, it was better in complete darkness than in the flickering lights inside that didn’t allow his night vision to kick in. Here, he could discern the delicacy of her features. Her face was wide across the cheekbones, narrowing at her chin, and her mouth was currently pressed into a contemplative line.
It’s weird, right? He sympathized with her struggle. Probably she didn’t think about such things too often either. Nobody went around like, hm, what am I good at?
“I’m calm in a crisis. Logical. I make critical decisions quickly. I am difficult to intimidate and I have an exceptionally high pain tolerance.” The cold way she proclaimed that last trait sent chills down his spine.
What did these assholes do to her so she knows that without a shadow of a doubt?
“Damn. You’re tougher than you look.”
“I pride myself on it.”
“Then I guess that’s all for now. We’ll find out more about each other as this unfolds, huh?” Regardless of how it all panned out, it felt good encountering someone who wasn’t steeped in the system to the point that they had no hope left.
Slay felt for the rest, but he’d had no luck gaining traction starting a rebellion on his own. The other prisoners slept and worked and ate enough to keep body and soul together. A few of them had reported his clumsy attempts to stir them up, resulting in additional reeducation. He was too damn stubborn to be convinced of anything through torture, though. All it did was piss him off and make him start keeping a mental murder list. As he trudged through a day, he ticked guards off in his head.
Killing you first. Then you. You, next. Timms, especially, was a despicable son of a bitch.
“We should get back inside,” Rowena said, stepping out of the alcove.
“Coming.”
She slid by him, close enough for him to feel her body heat, pausing to add, “That reminds me. It’ll be less suspicious if you act like we’re fucking. That’s the most plausible reason why two people would sneak off for alone time.”
Speechless, Slay watched her go. Suddenly, his head was full of filthy images. Other prisoners would imagine that he’d taken her fast and hard up against the wall, and she seemed fine with that speculation. It left him feeling off-kilter, not least because he’d heard Dom fucking Pru exactly that way as he passed by—fine, semi-stalked the two of them like a demented weirdo. His head buzzed with unwanted memories; he was still stuck on Pru while she’d moved on. Hell, she was the only person he’d ever been with, starting from when they were teenagers. He’d been careful with their encounters, afraid of letting the mating bond kick in before he locked down his mother’s approval. In retrospect, life was too short.
I’m such a fuckup. Not this time, though. The stakes are too high.
Since Rowena was small, he caught up in a few strides. “That’s fine with me. You sure you’re good with how that pretense goes, though? Because I’m Animari, and cats are territorial.”
“You need to be possessive for the pretext to be convincing?” She tilted her head, appearing to consider the matter. “It’s fine with me, but I’ll warn you that reports may get back to the tyrant, and that…could be catastrophic for you. He claimed me when we were young, and I’ve never been able to convince him that my consent is required.”
Slay’s breath went in a rush, leaving him sick to his stomach. To him, it sounded like she’d been Tycho’s pet, entirely against her will. And didn’t that fucking answer all his unspoken questions about how she knew that shit about her pain tolerance. He’d only seen photos of the bastard, but Slay imagined Tycho Vega hurting her, and—the rage surprised him, a violent rush of it so powerful that his head crackled with it.