Page 7 of Whispers of the Dead

He slides food and drinks through the small opening at the bottom of Zoey’s, while the second dreg engulfed in shadows does the same to the rest of our cells, but my focus is on the first dreg and the hungry look in his eyes. It’s too long. Too interested.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawls. His voice is thick with amusement. He rests his elbows on his knees to make a show of getting comfortable. The smirk on his face makes my blood boil. “How’d you sleep?”

Zoey doesn’t answer right away. She pushes herself up with slow caution and presses her back against the bars separating us. I could reach out and touch her if I tried. Instead, I clench my fists.

“Let me out.” The steadiness in her voice surprises me. It’s a contrast to the fear I saw in her eyes before she turned her back to me.

The dreg chuckles and shakes his head like she’s told the world’s funniest joke. “Oh yeah? And why would I do that, sweetheart?”

Zoey lifts her chin. “I have people waiting for me. They’ll burn this place to the ground looking for me.”

His amusement deepens, and he tilts his head, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, yeah? Where are they, huh? Let’s hear it.”

I’m eager to hear this answer, too, but she clamps her mouth shut. When she turns her head, I can see the muscle straining from her jaw tightening.

The dreg waits for an answer, then his grin widens when she remains silent. “That’s what I thought,” he sneers. “No one’s coming for you, sweetheart. You’re all alone.”

Zoey’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she changes the subject, her tone deceptively calm when she looks down at his offerings. “Can I trade my juice for water?”

The dreg tilts his head, studying her like she’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. “Water, huh? What’s it worth to you?” He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before his gaze drops, lingering on her chest. “Maybe we can work something out,” he says, his grin turning predatory.

The rage that surges through me is immediate and blinding.

My upper lip curls back. Every muscle in my body coils. My fingers curl so tightly around the edge of my cot that my knuckles have probably turned white. I fight the urge to slam my fists against the bars. To shout, to draw attention to myself, to make the dreg focus on me instead of her.

I don’t, because I know better, and I know how this game works. If I react, if I give him a reason to think she means something, it’ll only make things worse. The only thing I can do is sit still, grind my teeth, and swallow down the anger that tastes like blood and regret while I watch.

Zoey’s posture shifts when she slides back toward the far corner of her cell with slow and measured movements. Her body curls inward and she tucks her knees close to her chest before wrapping her arms around them like she’s trying to disappear. Seeing her go from being so strong to making herself so small, all because of one man who isn’t worth the dirt on her shoe, really grinds my gears. I know it’s necessary for survival sometimes, but I want to rip the still-beating hearts out of every person who has ever made her feel this way, because now she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t fight; doesn’t lash out. She simply makes herself smaller.

The dreg laughs. Then he grabs her cup of juice back through the bars before standing and brushing off his pantslike he’s done something impressive. “Think about it,” he says. Then he tosses the juice over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist before walking away and leaving.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The tension is thick and suffocating, clinging to the air like smoke after a fire.

Then I break it. “Eat.”

Zoey doesn’t look at me. She stares at the spilled juice like it holds the last ounce of hope she had left. Her fingers grip her knees so tightly that I can see the tendons straining in her wrists. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You need to keep your strength up.”

Then she turns her head toward my voice, and I see her for the first time. A haunting, ethereal beauty with her eyes shadowed by the dim light. She shakes her head. “The juice will do me more harm than good, and I need protein. I can’t eat just anything. They took my medicine, and now I have to watch what I eat. If I don’t?—”

Her voice falters. She swallows hard and looks anywhere but at me. I don’t miss the way her hands curl into fists.

My brow furrows. “What medicine?”

She doesn’t answer.

Benji chimes in from his cell on the other side of her. “What, you on a diet or something? Pretty sure your weight’s the least of your problems right now.”

Zoey lets out a slow breath. Her voice almost comes out brittle when she speaks. “It’s not about that. They took my…” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. “They took my insulin.”

There’s silence as the weight of her words settles over us like a slow, creeping dread.

Benji, for once in his life, has nothing to say. Even he doesn’t have a joke for that.

The realization settles like a stone in my stomach, and scenarios run through my mind. The dregs aren’t going to give back her insulin out of the goodness of their hearts. Ifthey had a heart. They’ll use it against her. Dangle it in front of her like bait. The thought makes my skin crawl.

This situation is far more dangerous for her than I realized. She’s not only fighting for survival in this hellhole. She’s fighting against her own body. Without her insulin, she’s running out of time.

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