God, she was an idiot.
The things she had told Aaron in their daily banter.
The ways he would have to suffer before he died.
Did the
men all laugh at her below deck? The fallen virgin who thought she was so damn smart? Who they all knew would end up as some kind of breeder on Level 9 no matter how long she held out.
Who they indulged.
Men she knew. Who she’d conversed with for months. Men who sat at her table that very night as she brushed lint from the white tablecloth. Men who presented their cookie sheets for her to sit on. Who bantered and dined on ribeye, just like that first night.
There hadn’t been ribeye since…
Not that it mattered. Twenty-million-plus tickets she owed. Ten fucks a night, she might get off the ship in two years. Walk south and never stop walking. Never stop.
Ever.
The man with his hand splayed on her belly, who served as her chair, said, “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
On no level was she okay. “I’m just doing some math… a bit stuck on the numbers.”
How many plates had she broken? How many extra fucks had she added to her tally?
If she could convince ten of them to fuck her a night, how many nights would that be? There were only five men at her table, so she’d have to draw the other men, get competitive over tickets. Would ten men even want to fuck her every day, or would she look as worn out as Chloe? Who was no doubt going to be transitioned to Level 9… because she’d almost earned enough by whoring the hardest.
That was why Chloe had put glass shards in Juanita’s food her first night. Fresh and pretty competition extended this hell. And that’s why Juanita was warned about the glass, just like Eugenia had been—Captain’s orders, no doubt.
That’s what affected their price. How much ride the captain thought he could get out of all of them.
“You look pale, Eugenia.”
The things she had confided in these men. Her history. Her achievements and blunders. Funny childhood stories and the names of her dead parents. Despite never intending to, she had connected with them on an extremely fucked-up level.
And they were all in on it.
She meant to answer with something canned. A general “I’m fine.” But her eyes finally lifted from that tablecloth… and it wasn’t her guests she saw.
It was John.
Perched at Table #6. Having fun as he lined up for a turn. He laughed, though didn’t engage in the banter.
He didn’t have a tongue. The captain had told her so.
She wasn’t sure how she got there, or why she thought a goddamn cookie sheet would serve to kill him. The drag on each swing—thanks to the shape of her chosen weapon—slowed down momentum and reduced impact.
Not that it mattered when sanity had fled. Beating him with all she had, she screamed that she’d kill him for doing this to her. Turning the cookie sheet to its side when it clicked that it would be far more effective to reduce wind resistance.
Going straight for the throat.
Six months!
She’d been on the ship at least six months for him to have earned his way up to Level 15.
When his fist landed in her gut, when he took her down like a linebacker to steal the rest of her air, she refused to let him steal the rest of her life.
Rage fortified. Claws going for the eyes.