A man chuckled behind us as if I was highly entertaining.
Rubix gripped me harder. “No.”
“If you won’t feed me, then you should know I’ll have no energy to play your little games—whatever you have planned. Oh, and by the way, my feet are bleeding from the damn gravel.” Wriggling my toes, a fresh cut oozed with blood and grime. “Clothes, food, and shoes. That’s the very least I’m owed after everything you’ve done.”
You owe me more than that, you bastard. You owe me your life.
“Fuck no.”
I kept pushing. Each argument undermined his power in front of his men. It was stupidly defiant, but I’d be lying if I didn’t enjoy pissing him off with reminders that once upon a time I was his ruler. “I’m your prisoner. You said yourself you want me alive. It’s your job to ensure I have the things I need in order to stay that way.” My back straightened regally. “Give them to me. Now.”
Rubix chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I said I’d keep you alive, not in a life of fucking luxury.”
“Food, shelter, and medical attention are bare necessities, not luxuries.”
His voice snaked down my ear. “And you would know, wouldn’t you, princess? Always had everything you ever wanted. Keep talking, bitch, and I’ll show you how much worse life can get. Then we’ll argue about what counts as fucking luxury.”
Slamming his palm on the large door of the meeting hall, the entry swung open, revealing the same high-lofted, bare-boned structure from my childhood.
Oh, God.
Such twisted memories. Such happy times now tainted with bad. My heart filled with Arthur and the past.
“Come on, Buttercup.”
I shook my head, crossing my ten-year-old sticklike arms. “Nuh-uh, we’ll get in trouble. Daddy says to never go in there. It’s adults only.”
Art rolled his eyes, stalking toward me with moonlight as his ally. “It’s ours as much as theirs. I want to explore. I’m sick of the forest. I’m sure there’s plenty of juicy things to read in those locked filing cabinets.” Reaching out, he touched my hand.
Instantly, the same electricity that only strengthened year after year crackled between us.
He froze.
I froze.
The moon froze.
We were too young to have these feelings. Too young to have found our soul mates.
But that was exactly what’d happened.
Rubix let me go, shoving me away from him and into the cavernous room.
I skidded with inertia as the late afternoon sun became gloomy interior.
“See, Cleo?” Rubix stomped his boot. “Tiled floor. You don’t need shoes. And the air is warm, so you don’t need clothes.” His eyes stole liberties, slithering over my body. “In fact, I rather like what you’re wearing. You sure don’t look like a fucking child anymore.”
Ignoring him, I drank in the meeting hall where Art and I had explored, stolen kisses, and ultimately planned our leadership when we came of age. So many memories inscribed the walls. So many laughs faded with time.
Pain crippled me thinking of him hurt or dead. I couldn’t stomach the thought of finding him only to lose him all over again.
Please be alive.
My agony morphed into blackened hate, reinforcing my desire to slaughter Rubix and ultimately cure the world of his evil insanity.
I expected darkness and quiet, the hazy world I remembered of swirling cigarette smoke and the anticipation of new conquests. Instead, I was interrogated by blinding overhead lights and thirsted after by a hall of vile men.
Every pair of eyes trained on me.
And every atom inside me sprang to a feverish fear.
“Well, fuck me. There she is.”
“Our own little queen back from the fucking dead.”
“Fuck, her hair looks like the fire she burned in.”
“Show us your scars, pretty princess.”
The voices all crashed around me, eddying in my ears, decomposing with their intentions.
Keeping my face haughty and void, I glanced at the men sitting around the huge wooden table. Empty booze bottles and odor-spewing bongs rested by filthy hands of at least thirty brothers. Unlike Pure Corruption, Dagger Rose’s Club room was messy and untended. Empty beer cans littered the floor and condom wrappers stuck to the stained couches shoved in the corner to make space for the huge table. The walls were covered in graffiti and cracked out Club bunnies lay haphazardly in chairs and on the floor.
There was something to be said for cleanliness washing the wickedness out of one’s soul. Dagger Rose needed a compound-wide disinfection.
A man with a bald head and a tattoo in the shape of a striking cobra licked his lips, wolf-whistling in my direction.
Cobra.
I remember him.
He’d whacked Arthur across the back of the head whenever he caught us doing homework. He said we wasted our time on education when Arthur was destined to always be a bitch.
Another man with long, greasy black hair slurped a wad of tobacco and probed me with his gaze.
I remember him, too.
Sycamore.
Named after his love for making shanks and weapons from the sycamore tree.
He smiled, teeth stained sepia from his nasty habit. “Hello, little Cleo. Fancy seeing you alive, after all these years.”
Snickers and chuckles echoed around the space.
“Fancy seeing you alive and still chewing cud like a cow.”
Sycamore’s fingers dug into the table. He spat the brown mess into an overflowing ashtray. “Your father should’ve used the strap to shut that fucking mouth of yours.”