Page 35 of Caged Kitten

I stared up at him, knowing that I should stand my ground even when I would rather look anywhere else right now—anywhere. Or, even better, jump up and take a running leap at one of those windows to my right. Crash through. Plummet to the gravel grounds outside—meet some of the wolves I heard howling come nightfall.

“And now you’re a warden,” I told him. “That’s it.”

My breath snagged there for the first time. Lloyd’s smile sharpened, and he stabbed at the desk’s top with his pointer finger as if to drive the point home.

“No, you know there’s more.”

My stomach twisted and knotted, the measly breakfast I’d had hours ago and the bit of bread I had munched on in the proofing pantry this afternoon suddenly a little too present. The churn brought with it a rush of acid creeping up my throat, the sensation infuriatingly familiar, but I pushed through and hoped the nausea didn’t read on my face.

“Shall I say it, then?” Lloyd offered in a tone beyond patronizing. I just shook my head.

“I think I’d like to go back to my cell now—”

“Do you know why you’re here, Katja Isabella Fox?”

Oh gross. Hearing my name coming from his mouth kicked the nausea up a few notches, and I bit at my cheeks, willing my insides to settle.

“Because someone lied,” I gritted out, “and said I sold love potions.”

“False.”

I frowned, waiting for more, hating to have finally heard the truth from him. No one but the other inmates believed me. Processing staff, the guards… I was just an ingrate to them, another criminal who had been found guilty. And now this? Just like that—false.

Lloyd dragged it out like he enjoyed making me wait, edging me for knowledge—staring at me with eyes like slate, like steel, just the shade to match his metal heart.

You know… If all the stories were true. If Dad really was telling the truth.

And from the look of him, this smirking man, my warden, it was impossible to say otherwise now.

“You’re here because I ordered it,” he said at long last, his voice even and calm, as if we were having the most casual of conversations. “Because…” After fidgeting with his diamond cuffs, Lloyd leaned over the desk again, swooping closer to me and bringing with him a rush of sharp peppermint that almost made me gag. “Because you were mine before you were even born.”

Smug, ever so pleased with himself, Lloyd Guthrie settled back in his chair again like he was doing me some kindness—like he had decided to allow me a few precious moments to process that monumental bombshell. Only I couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. Hearing his words had triggered a wall inside me, a mental block that I couldn’t get around, couldn’t climb over. Just there, oppressive and towering, my heartbeat like a pounding fist against it.

“What i-is this place?” I managed, all the smoothness from earlier dead and buried. Gone. My voice broke in a hoarse whisper. In fact, I was barely aware of what came out, only that I was speaking, my sense of self-preservation trying desperately to change the subject. “Supers don’t have… prisons.”

“Ah, yes.” Lloyd pressed his steepled fingers to his lips, considering me, before snatching up an ivory pen from his desk and twirling it effortlessly. “It’s a creation of my own design. Xargi is the prototype for penitentiaries I intend to launch all over the world… Proof to the elders of our communities that troublemakers can be dealt with at no cost to them. Proof to the few human governments in the know that we can discipline our own.” He pressed the end of his pen into his chin dimple, some of his coarse blackish-grey facial scruff making a scratchy sound at the contact—like nails on a chalkboard. “And it’s a chance to earn an honest living.”

The next stretch of silence implied he was waiting for a response—maybe for me to sing his praises. Delusional. I just stared at him instead, horror solidifying in my chest like an anchor.

“Do you like that?” he crooned, dragging his pen over his lower lip. Somehow he managed to read as both rakishly handsome and disgustingly lewd. “An honest man?”

Sidestep that land mine, girl. “Are you selling the bread we bake every day?”

He tossed his pen on his desk. “I am.”

“And what’s forged in the metal—”

“Let me stop you there.” Lloyd folded his arms, staring at me like I was a child, a pupil, a little girl for him to mentor and mold to his liking. Patronizing piece of shit. “Every work detail makes a product. We sell that product and put the funds back into the prison. It’s all very legitimate.”

“It’s not legitimate,” I fired back, the embers flaring inside me, a whisper of warmth coiling up my spine. “Most of us aren’t criminals… We shouldn’t be prisoners. This is a fucking labor camp!”

Lloyd surged forward with a flash of teeth. “Oh, what a mouth on you. I like that. I like that much more than I’d have thought…”

His wide eyes, that maniacal cackle, extinguished whatever fire had started up again. I shoved back in my chair as far as I could, suddenly realizing that like almost every other chair in here, it was bolted to the ground. Not going anywhere. No escape.

“Xargi is a proof of concept, kitten,” the warlock remarked, either oblivious to the fact that I was stretching to get away from him, hands snapped tight around the armrests, or he just didn’t care. I bit the insides of my cheeks again, the flash of pain centering, and scowled back at him.

“Stop saying that.” He had no right to call me kitten. He wasn’t my dad. He hadn’t earned that privilege. This asshole had no idea who I was. No clue. And he didn’t get to talk at me like he did.

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