Page 14 of Born for Lace

His eyes run a lap of my body before he releases my hand. I take the apple and bite into it, replacing his bile-producing gaze with sweet tannins.

“You got enough serum to make your tea?” he asks. “It’s not a skill I ‘ave. I ‘ave never been given a Lace Girl. I ain’t offered such prize assets here at The Bite.”

“Serum?” I force the apple chunks down my dry throat, never having heard it referred to as aserum. What a strange thing to call it. “I have a little of each ingredient to make the tea. I can make a small amount.”

His needled smile skitters along my skin, so I add, “Just enough for an hour.”

That’s a lie.

But an hour isn’t enough time to skin me with those teeth, right? Not enough time to hide my body… the parts left?

He lifts another apple. “Have another.”

I reach for it, but he doesn’t let go, holding my hand and the apple. “For later,” he grinds out.

I stare into his one good eye, and his gaze pushes through mine. “Thank you,” I say.

“Go in the back. There is a small kettle by the sink. A cup, too. Make yourself comfortable, Lace Girl.” He releases the apple, snapping the tension.

Ignoring the screams of my inner voice, ‘Don’t go. Don’t go.’ I walk through a door behind him and out of view.

He probably knows nothing about Companion Nights but that is fine. I am well-trained and can prepare myself.

In the back of his Exchange Hub, I see a small cup already waiting on a crate, which appears to be his bedside table.

Just breathe.

Watching myself more than actually being present, I make a nest in the corner with my jacket and tuck Spero into it. Thankfully, he is fast asleep.

I grab the ingredients hidden in the back sleeve of mybeibaofor my Lace Tea: La Mu leaf and seed, Opi Lava, and clove. The Opi is bitter. Usually I indulge in a spoonful of raw sugar, a rare item that my Ward trades whiskey stamps for… I don’t have any today.

I walk to the bed. The floor beneath my boots is the natural rock, jagged in parts, smooth in others, all stained in different colours I care little to analyse further.

I sit on his tiny single mattress and slide my boots off, setting them neatly on the floor like soldiers. Orderliness is a virtue.

My pulse is in my neck; I imagine anyone who cares to look at my throat will see my heart beating erratically. See my nerves jumping beneath the skin like scared little creatures.

Just breathe.

Across from me is a large stainless-steel sink covered in blood and slices of silvery skin.

It is fish skin.

Is it?

Yes. It has to be.

A shuddered breath escapes my lips as I stare at the crimson splashes along the metal basin. Beside them, there are thin, dull, and poorly kept knives.

To fillet fish.

This room is no more than a box. Everything he needs to work and live here is crammed into one space; clothes piled in the corner, a small fibreglass shower cut into the wall, concealed by a tattered curtain, and a small, smelly bed.

Ignoring my instincts, I prepare my tea, mixing it into the small cup.

I set it down on his crude bedside table and let it brew. Then, I take a shaky breath and remove my shirt-dress and pants through a trembling exhale.

I’m going to be okay.

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