Page 74 of The Doll and The Domination

“What’s the plan when we get to the commissary?” Warrose bumps elbows with Dessin as we dry off.

“Sit down.”

“That’s it?”

Dessin’s eyes are two swords that shoot to Warrose’s throat.

“Do nothing.”

Warrose glances at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug. Dessin isn’t one to give up, but I honestly have no clue what he’s planning.

We follow the assembly line of prisoners to the commissary. Being cruelly poked, shoved, and bruised by the sentinels that have nothing better to do. It’s difficult not to feel defeated. I’ve thought about ways to get Marilynn food. Ways to sneak into the kitchen. But even Helga Bee won’t risk getting starved out. They watch us like hawks. Only Kaspias was able to slip us some soup. And I don’t think we’ll get that lucky twice.

I turn to Ruth. “Do you think you can talk to Kaspias again?”

She shrugs. “I can try.”

Screams fill the commissary as the front of the line enters through the high-arch doorways. Long strings of words jumble together, fast phrases we can’t understand.

The assembly line speeds up, curious to see the ruckus. Stumbling around each other, shoving, throwing elbows. Our group huddles together. Dessin, Niles, and Warrose form a circle around us. A male instinct to keep us close, safe from the stampede of interested prisoners. Immediately, Ruth and I hold Marilynn close, protecting her from the chaos of violence breaking out around us. She eyes our hands with prickly skepticism.

We keep our steady pace, entering the commissary along with the wave of inmates gasping, shouting, laughing. I search through the crowd, straining my eyes to peer through their jostling bodies.

My feet stop dead in their tracks.

Muscles lock in place.

A familiar awfulness twists around my organs, gripping my throat like a demon that’s broken loose from hell, wreaking havoc on this prison.

A burly woman lies naked on the center table. Apple in her mouth. Ankles and wrists tied together. Dead and roasted like a pig. And to top off the image of pure savagery, her leathery, cooked body is on a patch of lettuce, potatoes, cheese, onions, carrots, and squash.

The table is set like a feast for a king.

“It’s…the head cook,” Ruth translates through a disgusted gasp.

“Dear God,” Niles chokes.

The smell travels through the room like a plague. Each of us gags, winces, or plugs our nose at the sour, burned stink.

I revolve to my left slowly, our friends following my cautious movements. Dessin stares at the aftermath of a rather creative murder. His expression is a show of dark clouds and thunder powerful enough to rumble the earth.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say with a vigor of chills that shell my skin, burrowing under it for good measure. Bile splashes against the back of my throat, burning the roof of my mouth. Though I’m grateful for this power move, I’m still human. And a dead body is still a dead body.

His dilated, chocolate eyes dart to me, and the heat sweltering through our connection is molten hot. A phoenix of flames. He winks, drawing a throaty, shocked laugh from Warrose.

“No fucking way. Christ, you’re a goddamned artist.” Warrose places his hands on the back of his head, chuckling at the confused faces surrounding the crime. Even with his dark humor, it’s obvious that he’s disturbed by Dessin’s choice of death for the cook.

Dessin takes a step toward the kitchen staff. The same individuals who have deprived us of food for weeks. They frantically glance at their head cook with confusion, fear, and repulsion. With his unrelenting presence in front of them, the crowd backs away, giving him the floor.

Whispers die out. The foreign gossip slows to a stop.

All eyes on the once infamous Patient Thirteen.

“Ahyë quòvex na müoi këx,” Dessin growls in a flawless accent.

He knows Old Alkadonian?!

“Holy shit,” Ruth barks out a laugh that is entwined with a deep cringe followed by a gagging sound.

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