Page 14 of Never Broken

The boy looked up at me in surprise, but quickly, skillfully, dropped his gaze again before Daddy noticed anything.

“Is that true, boy?”

This slave, though he was likely my age or a bit older, had a man’s body, a man’s shoulders, a man’severything, no doubt. However, in this house, he was going to be “boy” no matter what, just like all male slaves under about fifty or so. Hell, I’d just called him that myself.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and though he never looked up from the floor, I could see that not only was he thinking, he was, of all things,calculating, his mind nimbly adapting to the circumstances as they evolved. “Erosion of the gasket in the valve could cause a high-frequency vibration when the water flows past.”

Who knew whether this was an actual thing or not, but coming out of his mouth—and in that accent—it sounded oddlybrilliant, like some kind of groundbreaking theory of physics instead of mere plumbing.

To my relief, Daddy looked, at worst, bemused. “Well, we’ll have to get that looked at,” he said finally. “I can’t believe the pipes are going already. This house is only ten years old.”

“You didn’t tell me you were buying anybody new,” I said, borrowing the boy’s tactic of changing the subject quickly.

“I wasn’t sure the sale would go through until a few days ago,” Daddy replied, seemingly pleased to be able to transition to showing off his shiny new purchase. “New Europe is notorious for red tape.”

“But slaves are expensive, Daddy. Aren’t we—” I swallowed. If he hadn’t figured it out already, the slave definitely didn’t need to know about our plummeting financial situation. What the hell was Daddy planning on using this guy for, anyway, when he couldn’t even afford to buy me a daily coffee anymore? I knew what slaves cost. And I knew there was no way in hellthisone had come at all cheap.

Daddy paused for a moment. “Foreign slaves are a bargain, Loulou, given the exchange rate,” he said finally, but he paused again as if he really wasn’t interested in sharing the full story behind the boy’s price. The way the boy’s eyes shifted as he pretended to stare at the floor suggestedhewasn’t, either. “Both the valet and gardener are getting up there, and this boy’s young and strong as an ox. Can do the work of two, no doubt.” Daddy clapped the boy’s impressive shoulder as if it were something he’d had custom-built. “And educated. Not to the level of a free man, of course, but I plan on finding a use for that, just you wait. Sounds like maybe you already have,” he added with a light chuckle. “And of course, that face alone is worth what I paid.” He grabbed the boy’s chin and tilted it up, and his lip curled back as he obviously struggled to keep from making eye contact with either of us. He’d also gone silent, but it was only proper: he wasno longer being spoken to, after all. “I thought he’d be a nice complement to the maid. You can never have too many pretty things around the house.”

Classic. Leave it to my father to buy the most attractive slave he could find and then expect me not to touch him.

The front door slammed. “Hey, Lou!” called an impatient voice. Corey’s.

Heat and nerves and God knew what else had made my hair and makeup even more of a sweaty mess than they had been when I’d entered, but it was too late to do anything about it now. I’d have to grab some blotting powder from my bag and hope for the best.

“You home? I got food. Let’s do this already!”

The boy and I both looked up curiously, and I used the opportunity to slip out of the room because if I stayed, I’d do something I was sure to regret. Or maybe not regret at all. Either way, I didn’t want to find out.

Half an hour later, I could at least say one good thing about my study session with Corey: he’d chosen a beautiful day. I would have preferred the privacy of my room, but Corey had insisted on studying outside to enjoy the perfect desert sun. Or maybe just to be seen. He had plopped himself on one of the pool lounge chairs like some movie star in dark glasses, ahalf-eaten burrito next to him, apparently having forgotten that I’d requested pizza. As he gesticulated his explanation of how halogens combined with alkenes to form dihalides, he paused to slurp a cola with beads of perspiration on the side. He’d said he would have gotten me something to drink, but he didn’t know what I wanted. As if soda weren’t a fairly safe choice.

I shoved my textbook off my lap with disgust, then headed for the kitchen. Anything to get away from this disaster. Much as I hated to admit it, the slave boy had been right. Malchow’s long-winded explanations were what was making o-chem impossible, and Corey’s grandiose methods of trying to explain it to me were making it that much worse.

“Where are you going?” he called after me. “We’re right in the middle of a chapter.”

“I need something to drink.”

As I walked away, Corey leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “You know,” he called out, swirling the cola can like it was full of fine wine, “if you can’t follow the simple mechanism where the electrophilic addition leads to the formation of a cyclic bromonium ion, maybe med school just isn’t for you. But don’t worry, when you get back, I can try another explanation that’s maybe more your speed. Hey,” he remarked suddenly. “Wait, your slave’s right over there. Just makehimget you something.”

Oh, shit.I turned around, praying he’d been referring to the gardener, though I already knew he wasn’t.

The boy had pushed up the sleeves of his gray T-shirt—either an old one of my brother’s or borrowed from one of the other slaves—and was dragging a wheelbarrow full of pruned palo verde branches, which he emptied into a gigantic plastic yard waste bag. Every so often, the sunlight would catch his thick, damp, wild hair, sending shafts of gold shooting through it, and when he reached up to brush it out of his eyes, it went flying in eighteen different delicious directions. Oh, and if that weren’tbad enough, the rest of him was glowing almost ethereally from the work, his T-shirt sticking wetly to his torso, outlining the way his muscles bunched and rippled like liquid gold. And howdarehe have a strip of skin show just above the waistband of his shorts and below his shirt, where the tiniest trace of soft, fine, sunlight-colored hair was visible? I didn’t dare plunge my eyes lower, but, come on, I’d gotten this far. I hugged my arms to my body, suddenly flailing with jealousy over the women who must have touched that very spot. Who were they? Slave girls? Free girls? And what had he?—

“Lou?”

“Huh?” I spun around guiltily, realizing I’d been engaged in some serious one-woman foreplay—right in front of Corey. Fucking hell, I was out ofbreathover it.Goddamnthis guy, and no—not guy. Slave, slave, slave. I wasn’t supposed to be wondering about his package, or what he’d done with it, or what he coulddowith it. I wasn’t supposed to be wondering about him atall. He was furniture. An accessory. A tool. As much as the fucking wheelbarrow he?—

“Itoldyou to ask that slave to get you something to drink,” Corey demanded.

“I don’t—he’s busy.” I gasped.

Corey stared at me as if I’d sprouted a third eye. “So?”

“But—”

“He’s new,” Corey announced like a royal decree, studying the boy with narrowed eyes, which couldn’t be good. “Where’s he from?”

“Not sure,” I said, desperately trying to keep my voice neutral. “His accent is weird, though. He almost sounds German or something. And I think he knows chemistry?”

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