Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Beef was on the menu almost every night at Lochlan’s. A chef prepared it with spices and cooked it to perfection. Freshly baked bread and vegetables were heaped into serving dishes, still steaming as they were delivered to the table. And the butter the kitchen staff churned by hand was always available to be slathered on bread or melted on vegetables. We had steak, pasta, grilled chicken salads, vegetable soup and more. Bacon, eggs and toast for breakfast. Then there were the desserts—the most decadent of desserts every night, with rich chocolate and the raspberry sauce Lochlan often requested.
It was a very comfortable prison, but it was still a prison. I’d rather be on this island, my greatest hope that I get a bowl of watery bone and fish skin soup for dinner.
My kitchen shift ends. I check out with Billy and jog to the training area, because I don’t want to be the last to arrive. That person has to run laps around the training camp for the entire four hours of the session. In my state of exhaustion, soreness and hunger, I’m not sure I could do it.
For a week now, I’ve watched the person who arrives last struggle to get through that four-hour run. They usually throw up, and they can hardly walk when it’s over. Some of them crawl away from the training area.
It leaves me wondering what happens if you can’t complete the run. I’m not sure I want to know.
That night, I stagger to the showers at the end of my second training session. My feet ache from running in boots and my right hand throbs from all the punches I threw. Pax and his co-commander, Virginia Marsden, watched me spar and I didn’t want to show any weakness.
I don’t understand it. I don’t care about impressing them. They can call me a one or a four; it makes no difference to me. It would be nice to be able to leave camp and scout the island, but I’m only focused on survival right now.
Something deep inside me is fueling me, though. Telling me to fight. To get up from the ground faster. Punch harder. Jump higher.
Since I can’t get into Marcelle’s room, I hide my soap inside a bush near the showers. I fish it out and unwrap the leaf I put around it to conceal it.
Showering makes me feel human again. The salt left behind from drying seawater was added to tonight’s evening meal, and I already feel better from getting some sodium. My headache is finally gone.
“Shower stall nine, move your ass! Time’s up!” a male voice calls.
Shit. That’s me. I was air-drying a little bit since I didn’t want to use my blanket to dry off. It gets surprisingly cold here at night, and sleeping outside with a wet blanket doesn’t help.
A woman who does laundry duty was sent to the infirmary during training tonight because she has an infection in one of the open wounds on her hands. I think about her as I put on my clean clothes.
On the walk back to Marcelle’s room, a woman’s moan makes me pause. My hand goes to my hip, though there’s still no dagger there. I look around from my spot in the shadowed edge of the path.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come.” The man’s voice is ragged; more like a feral snarl than a groan of desire.
I silently turn toward the row of housing I’m closest to; a man has a woman pressed to the outer wall, his hips driving into her and his pants pooled at his ankles.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she whines desperately.
Okay, so she’s good with it. I resume walking, wondering where the hell they get the energy.
I stashed my blanket behind an empty crate outside the kitchen. After grabbing it, I drag myself the rest of the way to the walkway outside Marcelle’s room.
I curl up beneath the blanket, not caring about the jagged splinter of wood my cheek rests on. Immediately, I feel myself falling asleep.
My gasp is unconscious, my eyes flying open as I’m dragged, someone pulling hard on my hair.
“Close the door!” someone whisper-hisses.
I’m surrounded in blackness, panic coursing through my veins as I frantically reach for the hands wrapped around my hair.
They let go. I jump to my feet, my fatigue forgotten.
“Who’s there?” I demand.
Someone moves. The sound of a turning doorknob grabs my attention. A crack of dim night light is visible as the door opens.
Marcelle walks into the room, a small, primitive torch made from a tree branch in hand. The flickering flames highlight the harsh lines of her thin face, vitriol swirling in her eyes. The corners of her lips turn up in a cruel grin. She presses the door closed and turns the lock.
“Time to find out what we do to baby killers here.”