Page 20 of Burned to Obey

I run my tongue over my teeth, searching for a vicious remark. It dies in my throat because I can’t bring myself to say I’d rather die. Deep down, I want to live—just not like this.

He steps even closer, his size imposing. Yet there’s no overt threat in his posture. He lowers his voice. “I’ll ask again. Do you want a cell like this one, or do you want a space of your own, with a bed and a door that locks from inside?”

I wrestle with myself. My pride demands I spit in his face, but the memory of icy nights, rotting straw, and the stink of hopelessness in these prison cells holds me back. Any measure of autonomy might be worth swallowing some pride.

I clench my fists, glaring up at him. “I’ll move, but don’t mistake it for gratitude. You hold all the power here. I’m just trying not to die in a stone hole.”

A flicker of relief crosses his features, gone as quickly as it arrived. “Understood.”

I rub the bandage on my arm, anger still simmering. “And if I do something you don’t approve of, you’ll drag me back to the cage, right?”

He doesn’t deny it. “You’ll have guidelines. If you follow them, I have no reason to confine you again.”

I grunt. “You’re really offering me a deal. Obedience in exchange for a bigger cell.”

His voice hardens. “Or you can choose this cell. That’s your alternative.”

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it. He’s not lying. I truly don’t have another option except waiting for Thakur’s mercenaries or some Senate flunky to finish me off. A wave of frustration crashes over me.

“Fine,” I say at last, forcing the word out. “But I owe you nothing.”

A tension in his shoulders eases, but he doesn’t relax fully. “Then follow me.”

The door opens at his command, the guards stepping aside. Saru beckons, and I walk out, refusing to show any hint of weakness despite my burn. The corridor is dimly lit, the smell of damp stone intensifying with each step. One guard leads, the other falls in behind. Saru walks at my side, close enough that I can sense the warmth of his body.

We ascend a winding staircase that feels endless. My legs burn from the climb, but I keep silent. The flicker of torchlight reveals tapestries on the walls, each depicting scenes of minotaur victories—sea battles, duels in the arena, the goddess Zukiev blessing some ancient king. I wonder if Saru’s face might one day appear on a tapestry for forging his own mark on minotaur history.

At the top of the stairs, we reach an arched doorway. Saru pushes it open, revealing a short hallway with only two doors atopposite ends. He escorts me to the right one, then steps aside so I can see inside.

The chamber is modest but worlds better than my previous cell. A single bed stands near a small window that catches a glimpse of the courtyard below. There’s a wooden dresser and a table with two chairs. A basin sits in one corner, presumably for washing. No bars or heavy locks from what I can tell, but I assume the door locks from the outside.

The guard who led the way waits by the doorway, halberd in hand. Saru gestures for him to stay put. Then he turns to me. “This room is yours now.”

I arch a brow. “What’s the catch?”

“You’ll remain here. You can leave only under escort, for tasks I assign. You will not wander the Bastion freely.”

“I told you: a larger cage.”

His jaw tenses. “It’s protection as much as restriction. You’re hated by powerful people, Naeva.”

I cross my arms. “I can handle hate.”

He sighs. “They’ll do more than hate. They’ll kill you. I have to be certain you’re not exposed.”

I want to snap a sharp retort, but I can’t deny he has a point. There are minotaurs out there who’d strike me down just to curry favor with Thakur. That brand on my arm may stop them legally, but I doubt every guard will follow the letter of the law if they think they can get away with an ‘accident.’

“Fine,” I say. My voice scrapes with bitterness. “Welcome to my new prison.”

Saru nods at the guard, who steps back into the hall. He lingers a moment before following. For a heartbeat, I think he might leave me in solitude, but he closes the door and remains inside, crossing the threshold so it’s just the two of us.

My pulse spikes. The room feels smaller with him in it, his presence sucking the air out of the space. I back up until I’m near the bed, arms crossed defensively.

He studies me, those amber eyes flicking to my bandage. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “You’re still healing.”

I stay on my feet. “I’m not tired.”

He exhales, and for the first time, I sense a hint of weariness in him. “You’re angry.”

---