Page 10 of Never Lost (The Unchained #3)

Shut up. Keep your head down. Get out alive. That was the voice whispering to me as if I were just another slave standing there, observing, trying to go unnoticed. Except—for all they knew, anyway—I wasn’t. I could do something.

Bryan’s lips curled in a smirk toward the boy, who had made himself as small as possible, having kneeled down to frantically scrape whatever he could of the mess on the floor into some napkins.

“Rest assured, it’ll be taken care of.” The glare Felix sent in the boy’s direction was enough for the manager to know what he expected.

Shit.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The boy’s head shot up for a second before he forced it back down to the floor.

“Yes?” Bryan asked coldly. He looked from the boy at me—the sophisticated, impeccably stylish, obviously privileged young man who had just spoken.

And so did Felix. As if all the evidence piling up had just collapsed under its own weight and fallen right on top of his head.

As if he were now X-raying my expensive ensemble to all that lay beneath—to every bruise, to every scar, to the thin white line hiding beneath the luxurious watch.

The thin line between one life and another: between this life and the life that was destined to be mine, again, forever, if I couldn’t get all of us the fuck out of here without doing something as idiotic as what I’d been about to do.

“He—” I swallowed, turned away from the kid—and the hope in his eyes—and faced the manager’s scowl.

It’s for Maeve. It’s for Lemaya. It’s for the girls.

It’s for all of us. I’m so sorry, kid. “Nothing.” I waved my hand, glancing contemptuously at the kid.

But not in his eyes. “Clean it up and get lost, boy. We’re trying to have dinner here. ”

I turned away as the disgusted manager sharply grabbed the crestfallen, now-visibly-shaking boy by the back of his shirt and shoved him back in the direction of the kitchen.

“I’m terribly sorry for all of that, sir,” the man said obsequiously. “We’ll have a new plate out for you in no time.”

Felix waved off the manager almost as easily as he’d waved off the boy. “Good,” he said, turning his attention back to whatever Arlo—who’d lost interest in all of it five minutes ago—was sniggering at on his phone.

I collapsed in my luxuriously upholstered seat, close to shaking now myself. Nothing was worth this. Well, almost nothing.

I would have been relieved when the bill finally arrived a half hour and another round of dumb, pretentious cocktails later—if only it hadn’t been the biggest minefield all night.

But at least I was prepared for this one.

I grabbed it, whipping out my thick, crisp wad of one-hundred-dollar banknotes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Lost my company card at the gym this morning,” I said with an exasperated shake of my head. “Spent an hour and a half on the phone with that fucking bank, but they told me seven to ten days for a replacement. Can you believe that?”

Arlo and Felix just stared. Fuck it. I sorted out the cash, threw it on the table, and excused myself, wandering back through the maze of glittering lanterns, gauzy curtains, and sprawling banquettes to the back of the restaurant, with the vague idea that I could find the boy and hand him one of the C-notes, of which I still had plenty.

Because if I’d learned nothing else recently, it was that money made bad things go away.

At least, if you were free, it did. At best, though, if the manager found the boy with it, he’d confiscate it; at worst, he’d accuse him of having stolen it and beat him double for that.

Besides, he’d have nowhere to spend it. The best he could do would be to find a good hiding spot under the floorboards.

And then hope to get another one hundred dollars from another equally generous or guilt-ridden person every day for the next five years, at which point he might have saved up about half the price of his freedom, assuming his owner ever let him buy it.

I spotted the boy on the floor of the pantry, chained by one wrist to the bottom shelf, a short length of cuff and steel looped through the slats like he was part of the inventory. Looked familiar.

He’d stripped off his stiff uniform, down to a thin T-shirt that left the bruises in plain view — black and blue stripes across his shoulders and neck, fading to sickly yellow at the edges.

His face was swollen, eyes nearly shut. No food in reach, just dry goods stacked neatly around him like a joke.

He flinched when he saw me, then looked away.

Helplessly, I came closer, hastily undoing the watchband, revealing my half-limp wrist, which was really becoming a work of art—the pale line the chain had concealed; the purple, swollen bruise from the hammer; the reddish indentations from the links.

He didn’t turn. He barely moved his eyes. But he was looking.

I knew that trick.

“Yeah?” the boy muttered. “So?”

“So? I’m—” I glanced behind me. “I’m sorry.

” I held out a cold can of ginger ale I’d palmed from behind the bar, and grabbed a bag of melba toasts from the top shelf, but he shook his head.

He couldn’t eat or drink it fast enough to conceal the evidence, and they’d still probably find out no matter what.

Then I held out the one hundred dollars. As if he could eat that.

“Fuck your sorries and fuck your money,” he said. “I’d rather be a slave forever than whatever you’re pretending to be.” He looked away.

I left the food, drink, and money next to him. He’d have to make the choice. Because while it may not make the bad thing go away, at least it might make my guilt go away.

Right. As if anything could ever do that.

The restroom was luxurious, dimly lit, and paneled with burgundy leather.

I swallowed four ibuprofen from the bottle in my pocket and splashed cold water on my face.

The night wasn’t even half-over, the second part was going to be worse, and the beat-heavy, melody-free music was boring into my brain like a drill, competing for space with the alcoholic fuzziness of the two cocktails I’d downed without tasting.

I shouldn’t have even had one cocktail. Maeve and Lemaya needed my help now .

They all needed my help. The slave boy was right to be disgusted with me.

And the girl in the lace dress, and Louisa herself, who’d risked everything she had to help Maeve, to help me —would be appalled that I’d wasted two weeks on expensive booze, ridiculous outfits, and sucking up to my boss while tooling around town in a Porsche. Emphasis on tool .

I blinked at my dim reflection in the mirror. Max Langer had been only half right. It wasn’t the clothes. It was my face I didn’t recognize anymore.

But the guy who threw open the door sure did.

I spun around. “Hey, bruh, I?—”

“Don’t ‘bruh’ me,” said Felix. “I want to know what the fuck’s going on here.”