Page 7 of A Madness of Crows

A desperate gasp of air as my head breaches the surface. Then—

“Again.”

I don’t know how long it continues. I lose count, my sole focus on staying conscious as I repeat their names in my head, over and over again.

When they finally drag me out, I’m barely half-awake, coughing and choking on the air I was so desperate for as they place me in front of the mirror.

Cecile, her face already swelling, circles me with a scowl. “Turn her.”

I aim a kick at her stomach when she reaches me, but she dodges it. Her fingers prod at me, brushing over the various scars that litter my body.

She lingers over the thin stretch marks under my navel, her voice shrill and demanding. “What are these?”

She doesn’t dodge my kick this time. It glances off her, though, and the slap she delivers to my face in returnburns.

I don’t respond, and she moves onto my crow tattoo. A grimace appears on her face as she inspects it. “This will have to go.”

She glances at my face, and a tiny, victorious smile curls at her lips. “Yes, we’ll get rid of that.”

I don’t respond, staring straight ahead. Refusing to let her see how much that possibility hurts.

It’s just skin. Doesn’t matter.

It feels like a lifetime as Cecile dresses me like her own personal doll. The men maneuvering me at her command are silent, no commentary on my body as one holds my legs still and she snaps white silk underwear into place. “White for the bride, of course.”

I flinch at that one. Her laugh is soft, more assured as they wrestle me into a ridiculous excuse for a nightgown, soft and flimsy and… white.

I’ve had enough of this room.

I stay still, feigning docility as Cecile dries my hair into waves and does my make-up, her gaze suspicious and her fingers stiff as she dabs and shapes my face.

She pats my cheek when she’s done. “Good girl. You’re a quick learner.”

I fuckinghatethis woman.

When they escort me out, turning right this time instead of going back the way we arrived, I don’t look away from the girls. I stare at every single one of them, taking in their faces, their fear and pain.

Not many of them look back. Too many are curled up at the back of the too-small spaces, their faces turned away. Listless. Sleeping, maybe.

Or drugged.

When the cages end, there’s a new hell to navigate as we walk through an arched entrance connected to the cage room.

“You may as well get the tour.” Cecile smiles at me through her battered face. “The full experience, as it were.”

I force myself to remain stoic. To log details with a detachment that almost scares me, as I take in the beds. The straps. The benches. The boxes, big enough to fit a torso, with a hole in the end.

Hell.

Cecile is still watching me. I glance around, forcing a yawn to my lips. “I was promised a party. This doesn’t feel very festive.”

She sweeps ahead of me, through the door at the end and up a new set of stairs. There’s carpet on these, the thick pile soft beneath my bare feet.

The heavy, pounding bass of music playing ahead of us bounces off the walls, laughter and cheering and the clink of too much alcohol giving me advance notice of what we’re about to walk into.

Cecile silently holds up a hand, gesturing at us to wait, and I don’t hold back my smirk as her hand rises to her swollen nose.

I hope it fucking hurts.