Page 24 of Rebel Fates

“What the frex are you doing?” he yells as he holds me off the floor. It sounds like Serrat.

“I was hungry!”

“How did you get out?” Serrat growls.

“I don’t know. The door opened!”

“Did you just eatthat?” Panic laces his voice. His hold on me loosens slightly.

At his shift in attitude, I stop kicking. “Yeah, why?”

“Spit it out!”

“What?” Are they so determined to prolong my misery that they don’t want me to even have what’s in my belly?

“Spit. It. Out!” he commands.

“I’ve already swallowed it.” With the words, I feel my stomach roiling. My skin turns clammy, and I break out in a cold sweat. “Oh, god!” My head swims with the onslaught of nausea.

Serrat doesn’t release me, but tilts my body forward so I can vomit directly onto the floor. My naked ass is pressed against his bulging groin. And I would have some opinions about that if I wasn’t so busy unloading my stomach’s contents.

I heave until I’m empty. Exhausted and sweaty, my arms and legs dangle like a rag-doll. If he wasn’t holding me up, I would fall into my own vomit.

“You done?” he asks.

I weakly respond with a mumble, “I think so.”

He jerks his body sharply, as if something caught his attention. And I know what he’s looking at. The knife.

Shit.

“So, you planned to murder us in our sleep?” His arms squeeze tight around my torso until I can barely breathe.

“No.” I wheeze. “I was going to take an escape pod and go. I needed something to protect myself.”

He curses under his breath, and drops me out of his grasp. Fortunately, I don’t land in the puddle of my sick.

I find my feet, even though it takes all my effort to stand. Crouching, I hold my hands out defensively, waiting for him to attack. I refuse to go down without a fight.

He scoops up the discarded knife on the ground and walks menacingly toward me. “You know how to use one of these?”

“Like a warrior? No, but I have been in a fight or two.”

“Did the Syndicate send you to kill us?” he asks.

Zeek and Rok run into the room and quickly take in the bizarre scene of ransacked, opened containers and my vomit. Probably, the most nonsensical thing is me looking as if I’m about to wrestle Serrat.

“Syndicate?” I crinkle my forehead in confusion. “Who are they?”

“Never mind.” Serrat shakes his head. “Not like you would answer truthfully if you were.”

“I was hungry. I haven’t eaten in a week. The slavers only gave me rotten biscuits that made me sick.” I try to not sound like I’m whining, but I am anyway. I have a good excuse—I’m fucking starving and dehydrated. “You didn’t give me any water either!”

Rok and Serrat both turn to give Zeek a hard glare.

Zeek frowns. “She was sleeping. I was letting her rest first. I didn’t realize she was that hungry.”

Tilting his head as if he just now registers I’m out of my makeshift cell, Rok narrows his eyes. “How did you get out of your room?”

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