Broken Captive (Wren's Song 3)

“Enough.” There had been more than enough antagonism. More than enough insubordination. More than enough of that vicious feeling pulverizing his guts to a pulp. “The men keep digging.”

***

Fingers fighting the clasp, the rusty thing finally gave and the cache’s lid groaned open.

Reaching for a canteen of drinkable water, the top was twisted and brought to cracked lips. Swallowing all she could, Wren gagged, spit up gritty mud, and bought that rust-flavored nirvana back to her lips.

Every muscle shook, strained and aching now that panic had subsided.

The rest of her dress she’d lost swimming for the hatch. Clothed only in dirt, fucking staggering and tired and sick, she’d dragged her tired bones away from a building that might tear free of its moorings and fall.

No Warrens rat would scamper near a sinkhole. They always got worse. Those fresh fools who came to scavenge always died.

Run to higher ground.

And if they were wise, sneak to a stash.

Because those who knew this dump had lost at least one home over the years. Starting over with nothing was a death sentence.

Wren had four ancient canteens of water. She had clothing for herself and her boys.

There was even a single pricy package of rations she’d hidden away.

But this place was not safe.

Which was entirely why she’d put the small case of treasure here.

Ancient wallpaper sagged on moldy walls, flocked with growing fungus and faded by time. There was water in the pipes. Tainted water enough to wash half the mud from her unsteady frame.

There were stairs that led down into a half sunken foyer of what had once been a grand hotel. There were bodies rotting in the muck.

This was a dumping ground for the dead.

Unclean. Infested.

And also her salvation.

Pulling coarse fabric over her damp arms, Wren found warmth for the first time in hours. Choking down the precious rations, she found a belly that no longer ached.

Stuffing her face almost brought with it a feeling of guilt, but it’s not like she could take food with her. She’d be murdered the instant someone thought there were edibles to be found in her pockets.

So long as the lids hung off to show they were empty, drained canteens she could hawk for supplies.

Goggles were a necessity.

Tools for salvage.

First on the agenda was finding a new home. Someplace where she could wait out her finger bones healing. Until then, there was no point in going back to the males.

She had to be able to say her piece.

Caspian owed her a years’ worth of water. He owed her coin.

And by their original agreement, she’d only had to serve until he was tired of her.

Since he’d cast her off, she was pretty sure that was that.

Of course, he’d probably kill her the instant she demanded payment for whoring, but Alec and Mikael needed funds to get out of this hellhole.

Mud clogged her ears, her pinky finger gently trying to dislodge what a rinse in old pipes had only pushed deeper. That ate up the hours of her day.

That and a great deal of restless sleep.

She would get through this, just as she’d gotten through the torrents of mud looking to pin her down.

Just as she’d survived abandonment and squalor.

Just as she’d survived the Waterworks and the Alphas who haunted them.

Two boys were counting on her. And she was going to see them safe.

Chapter 12

Flexing under dirty bindings, Wren stretched her healing fingers, clenched them against the brace, and hissed when an ache shot down her arm.

Bones seemed ready to be free of uncomfortable splints, the bruising had almost totally faded, but muscles were weak.

And so very stiff.

A bit of old leather between her teeth, and she continued the exercise, breathing through the irritation until her fingers grew too weary to follow commands.

Then it was the next hand’s turn.

Four days she’d stuck near a new, unfurnished hole. Sleeping alone for the first time in years, Wren had felt a strange liberty in the solitude.

How much simpler it was to score food when there was only one mouth to feed.

Though she was perpetually thirsty, she’d found more than enough water to keep her alive.

And the ease of it, the relief she had only one person to see through to the next day, left her in a state of deep guilt that she’d enjoyed the respite.

So she punished herself with hard labor. Despite her fear, Wren crept up to the outskirts of the Waterworks every dawn and dusk, eyes peeled for a boy who might have been cast out.

Not a single sign of Alec was found.

Nor had Mikael been thrown out into the mud.

But she could not trust Caspian to keep either of them much longer. Not when his end of their link jittered and shook.

Inebriated. Pussy drunk.

Disgusting.

Tormented.

Raw.

Just like he liked to think of her—a raw mouse with so much to devour.