No. Subspace meant security but not today. Right now it meant death, and she refused to die.
She blinked away the salt in her eyes and clawed through the water to the boat. With a strength that surprised her, she climbed over the edge, tumbling into the grimy bottom. It rocked gently with her weight then settled back into the gentle bob.
The boat wasn’t tied down anywhere, but there wasn’t an oar. Not that she had the strength to use one or a place to go.
Never mind. Her wish had been granted. She would drift out to sea, like a message in a bottle.
Her head lolled against the rim of the boat. She breathed in the pungent smell of earth and moss. Her last thought before she drifted off to sleep was fanciful. She imagined a giant plucking her from the water, unfurling her like a scroll, and reading the lines slashed into her skin.
She wondered what they would say.
* * *
Awareness washed over her, sending a small thrill through her sated limbs. There was always a sense of achievement in waking up, in knowing she’d lived through another day. She allowed herself a portion of pride. She had beaten them for one day more.
Of course, the morning was always the high point.
Every day it was the same. Bruises upon bruises. Welts upon welts. Everything ached, even now, but she knew better than to move. It wouldn’t make her feel better, and there was always the chance it would draw their attention. Anything was better than that, including lying unnaturally still on cold, damp concrete.
Except it didn’t feel all that cold or damp. It was hard to register anything above the agony in her muscles, but she felt something like cloth against her fingertips. She brushed it again, the softness foreign but seductive. Despite her worry and her hurt, she felt warm. Protected.
Instead of forcing herself into rigid stillness, she was relaxed.
A whiff of something like fresh morning air tickled her nose. That couldn’t be right. The ventilation from the small barred window high in her cell never competed with the stench of sweat and blood and fear. But there was the unmistakable smell of fresh, yeasty bread. Her mouth watered.
Her eyelids felt like they were weighted down with buckets of sand; she pried them open. Whiteness surrounded her. Not good. Loss of vision was one of the side effects of starvation. The slave in the cell next to hers couldn’t see anything for two days before she died.
Maybe she was about to die, and that was why she was hallucinating food and seeing clean white where gray and mold and pain should have been. It should have been terrifying to find herself on the brink of what she’d fought for so long. Instead, the blankness soothed her. The smells made her mouth water.
She didn’t want to die, but this didn’t feel like death.
The edges of her sight sharpened, and her mind put names on her surroundings. Whitewashed walls instead of metal bars. A bed beneath her instead of a flea-ridden pallet.
She recognized none of it, but the sweetness of it all acted as a drug in her veins, keeping her from panicking. Safe, she thought, even though she had no reason to know they wouldn’t hurt her here too. Home, she thought, even though she was sure she’d never seen it before.
Curiosity nudged at her until she lifted the sheet. Clothes! Well, maybe that was too strong a word for the soft worn shirt that draped her body and stopped mid-thigh. Her memory was hazy, limited at best, but clothes were new, she was sure of that much.
The sight of her torn and mottled skin tainted the daydream. And the pain rang true.
She peeled back the soft fabric to inspect her body. There were the usual marks, crisscrosses down her back and thighs she could feel with her fingertips, torn skin where the restraints cut into her wrists. There were new cuts too, but these didn’t look like the ones from a whip. Uneven scratches all down the front of her body.
Scuff sounds on the wood floors grew louder, her only warning before a looming figure filled the doorway. For one terrifying moment, her mind translated the image of his thickly muscled form and scowling face into a childish nightmare. A monster come to get her because she’d left her foot hanging over the side of the bed.
Then reality snapped her back. Not a monster, not exactly. A master.
Her training kicked in. It didn’t matter how she had ended up here in this strange, comfortable room at the mercy of this strange, sinister-looking master. She knew what to do. Her limp body slid from the bed and dropped to its knees. The movement awakened a thousand new aches, but it couldn’t be helped. She bowed low, praying she looked properly worshipful.
The threat of danger prickled her entire body, set her hair on end, but the fight or flight response had been beaten right out of her. Either reaction could get her killed, or more likely, hurt so badly that death would be preferable. So she waited on the floor, letting the cool knotted wood bruise her knees, her arms, her forehead.
She waited for an order, because that was what she’d been taught to do in the presence of a master. No command came, and the air tingled with expectancy.
As the seconds ticked away, anxiety rose. Should she do something, try a new position or ask how to please him? But any variation from her pose would be punished, she knew that.
The booted feet approached. Boots humiliated – they hurt. She held still, accepting. Probably she had done it wrong. Her heart sped up, but she fought the instinct to cringe away, to cover her head and vital organs, to beg for mercy. The pain of a kick echoed through her body, and he hadn’t even touched her yet.
Large hands clamped beneath her arms, hauling her up. He tossed her onto the bed, where she landed in an ungainly sprawl.
Even terrified, she kept her gaze lowered. Never look them in the eyes.