Page 24 of Bought for Blood

I tied my hair back an hour ago. I did it without deciding to, and I’ve been not thinking about it ever since.

It saves time. That’s all it is.

The supervisor came at noon and took me down to the same shower stalls as before. Hot water, soap, a comb. Now I’m in a pale blue shift that stops at my knees, waiting at a locked door for the sound of boots.

He’s two days late. I expected him the night before last, then last night, and both nights I lay on my cot listening for footsteps that never came. Today I haven’t been able to sit down at all.

It’s a trick. Just a trick.

Whatever he did to me that night is not something I chose, and it’s not something about me. It’s how a patient hunter softens a thing to sweeten the blood.

Knowing that is supposed to help.

It doesn’t.

The lock turns. “Hands,” the guard says, and runs the scanner over my tag. Then we walk. Concrete, then carpet. The bleach thins, the candle smell comes up to meet me, and my feet quicken on the soft floor until I slow them on purpose.

The guard swipes the door and jerks his chin. He doesn’t come in. His footsteps fade down the hall until they’re gone. Whatever happens in this room, nobody watches. Nobody listens. I don’t want to think about that.

I step through, and the room is the same. He isn’t.

The fire has burned low. Nobody’s fed it. The decanter sits untouched, the glass upside down beside it. He’s standing at the mantel in a dark coat, and the coat is damp across the shoulders. Mud has dried gray on his shoes and up onto the hem of his trousers. His hair is wrong, pushed back with a hand instead of a comb. He looks like a man who came here from somewhere without stopping.

I’ve seen him only one way. Perfect. Pressed. Now I stand inside the door and look, and for once he’s the one being looked at.

“You’re late,” I say, before I’ve decided to say anything.

“I’m aware.” He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t take the coat off either.

I cross the room and take the handkerchief out of my waistband and hold it out at arm’s length. A white square, folded small, gone soft from three nights under my mattress. I could have dropped it in the ward toilet. I didn’t.

“Yours.”

He looks at it longer than a piece of cloth deserves.

“You kept it,” he says.

“There’s no laundry service in a cage. Take it or don’t.”

He takes it and sets it by the decanter without looking away from me. “Sit, Serenity.”

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“Not from you.” The words come out level. My pulse doesn’t. “You people took everything else. The name stays mine until I choose to give it. There’s a difference.”

He studies me. The fire moves. He doesn’t.

“Then sit,” he says. No name.

“I’ll stand.”

“Your knees disagreed last time.”

“Last time I hadn’t had a real meal in longer than I want to think about.” I put my hands behind my back and set my feet. “That’s changed. I’m guessing I have you to thank for the extra rations. So, thanks. I’ll stand.”

He inclines his head a fraction.