From Enemy's Daughter to Expectant Bride. Оливия Гейтс
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backhanded him on his other cheek, even more viciously.
As he’d lain on the ground, shaking with fear and helplessness, the men had told him what to expect from now on.
“You’ll never see your parents or leave this place again. You now belong to us. If you do everything we tell you, the moment we tell you, then you won’t be punished. Not too bad.”
But he’d disobeyed their every order ever since, no matter how severely they’d punished him for it. He’d hoped they’d give up on him and send him home. But they’d only grown more brutal, seemed to be enjoying hurting and humiliating him more, and the hope that this nightmare might end had kept dwindling.
“Shall we give Numbers a choice of punishments today?”
He heard his tormentors snickering, could barely see their silhouettes towering over him out of the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. And in that moment, he gave up.
It finally sank in that what he’d endured their abuse so long for would never happen.
This nightmare would never end.
His captors would never stop their cruelty, his parents would never rescue him and no one else would ever help him. It would never stop getting worse.
And if this was what his life would be like from now on, he no longer wanted to live.
But he couldn’t even kill himself. All he had in his cell were metal bowls for dirty water and slimy gunk and the bucket he used for a toilet. There was no way to escape them even through death. Except maybe...
The idea took hold in a second. He’d tried everything except playing along. Maybe if he did, they’d think they’d broken him, and let him out of his cell. He could escape then.
Or die trying.
One of the giants kicked him in the ribs. “Up, Numbers.”
Gritting his teeth against the shriek of pain, he rose.
A terrible laugh. “Numbers finally obeys.”
“Let’s see if he really does.” The other monster shoved his foul-breathed face in his. “What’s your name, boy?”
The burning liquid in his shriveled stomach rose to his mouth. He swallowed it with the last thought of resistance. “Numbers.”
A slap stung across his sore cheek, if not as hard as usual. They’d punish him anyway, just not as badly when he obeyed. “And why are you here?”
“Because I’m good with numbers.”
“And what will you do?”
“Everything you say.” Another slap left his ears ringing, his head spinning, yet he continued, “The moment you say it.”
In the faint light coming from outside, he saw them exchange smiles of malicious satisfaction. They believed they’d succeeded in breaking him. And they had. But he didn’t intend to live long enough for them to enjoy their victory.
And they did as he’d thought they would—they dragged him out of his cell. Too weak to walk, he hung between them, his bare feet and the knees exposed through his tattered pants scraping on the cold, cobbled ground.
Barely able to raise his head to look where they were taking him, he got glimpses of soaring, blackened columns and arches, with a roiling gray sky between them. The whole place looked like a medieval fortress from one of the video games his father had gotten him. The one thing he noticed or cared about now was that the walls between the columns were low enough to jump over. To escape...or fall to his death.
Then one of the monsters said, “If you get near the walls, you’ll get caught, beaten then thrown back in your cell for twice as long as it took to break you the first time.”
So even that plan was impossible. But he couldn’t go on like this anymore. He couldn’t take it.
Before he begged them to just kill him and be done with it, they pulled open two towering wooden doors, dragged him across the threshold and hurled him to the rough ground.
When he finally managed to raise his head, he saw that they were in a huge hall with rows of tables filled with silent boys who’d all turned at their entrance.
“This worm is your newest addition. If you see him doing anything you’re not allowed, report him. You’ll have a bonus.”
With that, his two jailers turned and left him on his knees facing the boys. His pride surged back under their scrutiny, had him staggering to his feet, the initial hope he’d felt when he’d realized he wasn’t alone here draining away. He knew boys could be cruel to those smaller and weaker. And from a first sweep around the room, he was probably the youngest around.
He stood, trying not to hug his aching side, not to show weakness, and almost sagged back to his knees in relief as they turned back to their food and whispered conversations.
So they were all afraid to even raise their voices as the boys in his old school had, who’d been free to laugh and joke. These boys were prisoners like him. They’d been broken before him.
Painfully good smells of hot food hit him, making him dizzier with hunger. Trying to appear steady, he headed toward the source of the aromas.
He was struggling to reach the lid of one of the massive containers when a hand raised it. He hadn’t felt its owner’s approach.
It was an older boy with a shaved head and piercing black eyes who was already as tall as his own father. But instead of being intimidated by the boy’s size and fierce looks, he felt...reassured by his presence.
“My name is Phantom. What’s yours?”
His real name rose to his tongue before he swallowed it. This boy might be waiting for him to do something “they weren’t allowed to,” like tell his real name, so he could report him and get a bonus.
To be on the safe side, he only said, “Numbers.”
The boy’s winged black eyebrows rose. “That’s your specialty? But you can’t be older than seven.”
“I’m eight.”
At his indignation, the boy’s gaze gentled. “The first month—or three in your case—of starvation made us all look smaller. You must now eat well, so you can grow as big and strong as possible.”
“Like you?”
Phantom’s lips twitched. “I’m not done growing. But I’m working on it.”
The older boy filled a bowl of steaming stew that smelled mouthwatering compared to the rotting messes he’d been unable to force down for what he’d just now realized had been the past three months. He’d had no way of knowing how long it had been until Phantom had told him.
After handing it over, Phantom filled himself a bowl, then beckoned for him to follow. “If you warranted a name according to your skill that young, you must be a prodigy.”
It pleased him intensely that this huge boy with the soundless steps and penetrating eyes could see him for what he was. Even after his jailers had stripped him of everything that made him himself.
Encouraged, he asked, “How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I’ve been here since I was four.”
The boy had answered his next question before he’d asked it, telling him that what his jailers had said was true.
He’d never leave here.
They reached one of the tables and Phantom gestured for him to sit down. There were five other boys, each looking as different as could be from the other, all older than him, but none as old as Phantom.
Two boys scooted along the bench to make space for him as Phantom introduced him to them, his lips somehow not moving, so it would appear to the guards who flanked the hall that he wasn’t talking at all. Each of the boys introduced himself.