Page 11 of Obliterated
Joyeus stops her by lifting one hand, then tilts her head, eyes bright with something that makes my skin crawl. “If he’s a minor, he’s allowed to stay. When do you turn eighteen?”
“Couple of months.”
Her smile sharpens. “Then he can fall under my care until he is of age.”
My stomach plummets. Care? She makes it sound like mercy. But from the way Max stiffens, the way his glare snaps to her, I know better.
“That’s not up for discussion,” Max growls. “He should go to one of the Houses, not your godsdamn brothel. He can’t work for you.”
Abrothel. My chest clamps tight, the air shoving out of me. That’s what she means. That’s what she wants. She’s here to scout people to come work for her.
Joyeus spreads her arms, mock-innocent. “As far as I see it, he normally has the choice all underaged do. He can go back on the boat right now or he can rot in the orphan house like you two did. You know he’ll end up with me anyway when he turns eighteen, like all the skill-less who can’t find work do.” Her smile cuts sharper. “I send most of them straight to the mainland when I have no use for them.” She leans in, voice dropping. “But this one? With that face? He has a third option. He can come with me right now, learn the lay of the land before he’s eighteen. Serve five years. Then he earns his freedom.”
Freedom. The word lands like a noose around my neck like my mother’s parting words:Live Kieran, Live. Be free.
Max lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Your kind of freedom.”
Joyeus turns her sharp grin on him. “Watch yourself, Max. We both know if you’re tossed back into the Pit right now, you wouldn’t last. Don’t think I missed you’ve been wincing with every move.”
His jaw locks, the muscle ticking in his cheek, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reply.
Joyeus doesn’t look at me again. She doesn’t need to wait for my answer. She knows what it’ll be. And when her hand closes around my arm, her nails biting into my skin, I let myself be hauled away because there’s no choice, not for someone like me.
The mainland means death. Maybe not quick, but certain. I barely survived the last few months as it is. If starvation doesn’t get me, the factions will. Looters too, the ones who chase boys like me for sport, laughing while they tear everything away.
And the orphanage… If it’s anything like the ones I’ve heard about, I’d rot there until they shipped me back out anyway.
Shit… she’s offering me something. Some kind of freedom.
Freedom on a leash, for five years. But freedom still. A price I’m willing to pay, because the alternative is worse. Even if… even if I can already guess what she’ll expect from me in return.
I don’t let myself think about it. Not yet. Not while, for all they know, I’m still underage. That buys me time. Time to make a plan. A plan to turn to when I supposedly turn eighteen. When I reach the age men can claim me without consequences.
But as she drags me toward the checkpoint, where they’ll put me in the system, where I’ll be registered and tagged, I glance back. He’s still there. Those pitch-black eyes cutting into me, tracking me like prey.
Like a tether.
Like a warning.
Like he’s already claimed me. And he’s just waiting to collect.
Chapter three
Max
“Whyarewehere,exactly? For the third time this week, might I add? I mean… you can only count so many times as part of our investigation.”
I cut Tass a look from where we’re holed up in a cracked leather booth, the smell of wine, sex, and sweat clinging to the walls. Truth is, I know exactly why we’re here. Why I’m here. Why I keep dragging us back to this hole-in-the-wall bar under the guise of investigating.And why I don’t mind that we got this assignment.
Our commander, Roe, sent us to keep an eye on Joyeus, off the books. I told him what went down at the dock, how she was scavenging for new workers, and he didn’t trust it. Apparently, one of our colleagues also went to him about the fact that there are unregistered people on the island. But since Roe's council too, he needs to be quiet. Needs leverage and to see how deep it goes before he makes a move.
But there’s another reason I don’t mind that he put us on this.
Because every time we sit here, I can make sure that boy is still breathing.
Even if it's weeks after he stumbled off the docks with no papers, no plan, and every reason to be shoved back on that rust-bucket scrap they call a boat.
Why do I do it? Why the fuck do I keep checking on him? I know the answer, but I don’t like admitting it.
