Page 3 of Reign of Betrayal

I hesitate, unsure why he would need my arm. “What are you going to do with it?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Crack.

My head snaps to the side. The backhand lands so hard that my ears begin ringing, the room spinning from my now blurry vision. The sound of the impact from his hand against my cheek echoes throughout the small, stone room.

“We own you now,” he sneers. “You don’t get to ask questions. Give me your damn right arm.”

Swallowing my protest, I extend my arm.

He drags a chair in front of me and opens a large black leather bag. He pulls out what looks like ink, a small hammer, and a needle. My stomach churns, sweat dripping from my brow at the sight of it.

What in the double burning hells is he going to do?

He grips my wrist and twists it, so my palm is facing up. Dipping the needle into the inkwell, he begins hammering it into my skin. Each tap burns, igniting my already chafed flesh.

When he finishes, the numbers 7296 are now permanently etched above my wrist. I make no sound, not wanting another backhand to the face. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out, though inside, I am screaming.

I guess this is who I am now.

7296.

Not a person. Just a number—a piece of property to be owned.

The guard wipes the ink away with a rough cloth, then repacks his tools.

“Let’s go,” he snaps.

I stand immediately, but my stomach cramps. My muscles are burning, face now throbbing, and every inch of me is aching in some way.

We move past door after door. It’s the same monotonous cycle—unlock, open, drag me through, shut, and lock. Each newly locked door makes me feel more and more like a caged, feral animal.

Finally, we reach a massive, oval room. The center is hollowed out, revealing all the levels of floors both above and below.

The Hollows.

Wrapped around the gaping hollow center, are stacks of prison cells. The filthy, stone walls are lined with cells on every level—some holding men, others holding women. Debris clutters the floors, and the air hangs heavy and stale. I crave fresh air, a breeze, anything that isn’t this suffocating stillness.

The guard marches me halfway around the room and shoves me into an empty cell, locking me in. The clang of the lock slamming shut behind me echoes like a final sentence.

Inside the cell, there are two stone beds on opposite walls with thin straw on them. In between the beds is a toilet and a wash basin on the dirty floor.

I walk over to one of the beds and lie down. The hard stone beneath me is cold, the straw stiff and prickly against my skin. I curl my knees to my chest, wishing for a blanket, or some comfort, or maybe a different life.

But this is it.

This is my life now.

There’s no escaping it.

I have never been truly loved by anyone, except my parents. Even then, I’ve never experienced the things little girls dream of. There is no point thinking about it now.

Tears prick my eyes as I surrender to the exhaustion. I close my eyes, letting sleep take me before the weight of the night can break me completely.

* * *

“7296! Let’s go!”

I jolt awake to the sound of a gruff voice and the clanking of metal against bars. My head is foggy, vision blurred. Disoriented, I glance at my arm, which is burning. The numbers 7296 are etched in black ink on my wrist. The skin around the ink is raised and stinging.

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