Page 57 of Forbidden Fate

I glance toward the open doorway on the left. “Bathroom’s through there.”

That gets her attention. “A real bathroom?”

“More or less.”

She moves past me cautiously and peeks inside. “A shower!”

“Yes.”

“And hot water?”

“Probably.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Probably?”

I shrug. “This is an old building.”

She shakes her head with a small smile. “I don’t even care if icicles come out of it. I’m dying to be clean. To wash that disgusting cell off me.”

“I’ll stand guard,” I say.

“You’ll stand guard outside the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Not inside?”

I hold her gaze. “Outside.”

She tilts her head. “How chivalrous.”

“I’m not chivalrous.”

She scoffs. “No. You’re not.”

I make myself stand there and absorb the damage in her voice. The disgust. The remembered fear. The filth of a place I walked through every day like it was nothing more than stone and bars, blind to the true cost of doing our business.

The worst part was how easy it was to stop seeing people as people.

Women came through those cells terrified, screaming, pleading. Some offered money. Some offered names. Some offered their bodies before anyone even asked, believing surrender might spare them something worse. I watched them shake. I watched them cry. I watched them bargain with men who had no intention of keeping any promise made in the dark.

And I learned to put a wall between myself and their eyes.

They were prisoners. Assets. Problems. Packages to keep alive until someone more important decided what to do with them.

That’s how Vega made it possible.

Then came Robin.

Robin, with fury in her eyes and blood in her mouth. Robin, who didn’t beg. Robin, who insulted me like she had the upper hand while imprisoned in a dirty cell. Robin, who watched me like she could still choose whether I mattered.

I couldn’t separate her fear from her face. Couldn’t separate her body from her will. Couldn’t imagine there wasn’t a person standing in front of me, even when every survival instinct I had told me to keep pretending.

Maybe that doesn’t redeem a damned thing.

But I can at least try.

“I’m sorry,” I say.