Most of the papers are printed from a computer. I can’t understand what they say any better than if they were written by hand. There are some words I recognize, words that are in prayer books. Thanks. And help. And girls. Buried in one paragraph I find the word hell. The words I know are sprinkled like morning dew on grass, tiny windows that don’t help me understand the whole.
In a beige folder I find a stack of images. There are women posing, most of them without shirts or bras.
Some of them without panties.
I know it’s wrong to look at them—wrong to have them—but I linger anyway. I look at their eyes made dark with blue and purple and black glitter. I look at their lips painted every shade of red. I look at the hair between their legs, trimmed into a neat shape or missing completely. I’ve never even cut the hair on my head, much less the hair there. I didn’t know that was possible.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Would it hurt? It seems like it must hurt. Then my hand is gently pressing against myself, right there, over my shift, protective and terrified and curious.
The scrape comes from the door again, and my hand snaps to my side. My face heats with shame that he would come back and catch me this way. I slam the folder shut, but some images slide out anyway.
The door swings open.
It isn’t him. Disappointment rises in me, unwelcome and grim. Why would I look forward to seeing him? He might end up hurting me.
I remember the cold glint in his eye, the promise.
Oh, he’ll definitely end up hurting me.
Instead it’s the guard who had been standing outside the basement door when we came in. I’d barely gotten a glance at him, enough to know he was big and tall and strong. He’s dressed in all black, which adds to my impression of him as some kind of soldier. The only break in the image is the steaming tray of food he’s carrying.
He sets it on the desk and eyes the photographs peeking out from the folder.
The folder that I’m holding down with my palm flat, as if I can keep the strange feelings it inspires locked up tight, far away from me.
He raises his eyebrows. “I won’t tell on you for snooping.”
“If?” I may be new here, but I already know everything comes with a price. This isn’t so different from Harmony Hills, under all the lights.
He grins, looking boyish despite the fact that he’s obviously armed and dangerous. “If you eat your vegetables.”
I glance down at the tray he’s holding and see a feast. All that is meant for one person? I’ve never even seen a plate that large, and it’s piled high with food. There’s a steak with the juices still sizzling and mashed potatoes, the butter almost completely melted, and emerald-green broccoli. I haven’t eaten since dinner in the Great Hall last night, and my stomach grumbles loudly.
He gestures to the tray. “Come on, eat. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
He’s right, so I round the desk and head back for the plain wooden chair. No way I’m sitting in the big leather swivel chair. I’d probably get struck by lightning or something.
Except I can’t exactly sit down yet. “Are you…going to stay and watch?”
He gets a funny look on his face, almost embarrassed. “Just until you finish. Then I’ll take the tray back upstairs.”
I cock my head. I’m curious about him, but he sets me at ease. Completely unlike Ivan. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t question orders.”
Unease twists my empty stomach. That’s how it was in Harmony Hills, even if we called them counsels instead of orders. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Luca. And don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” His brown eyes soften. “Or touch you.”
I believe him, and that is the only reason I can sit and take a bite. And oh, that bite. The juices are still warm on my tongue, the steak more tender and wonderful than anything I’ve ever tasted. I catch Luca looking at me—looking at my lips—and my eyes widen.
His cheeks tinge red, and he turns away. “Where did you come from anyway?” he asks quietly. “Not from around here.”
“Far away.” Maybe not that far in miles. A hundred dollars didn’t last long, but I might as well be on the other side of the world for how different all this looks—and how lonely I feel. “Your boss,” I say softly.
“What about him?” Reserved. Wary.