Page 63 of Never Lost (The Unchained #3)

HER

N ovember’s ice combed through my hair as I approached Café Jennet for my afternoon shift.

In the frosty window, I caught sight of myself and stole a glance at the person staring back: a frivolous West Coast sun bunny doing her best to pose as a serious working Bostonian, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my new white wool coat with the high collar, which, given the coming deep freeze, I didn’t exactly regret buying—only spending as much as I had.

The pink-and-black plaid cashmere scarf, meanwhile, had been a nineteenth birthday gift from Rebekah.

About that, I regretted nothing . I regretted nothing about my new persona at all, even if I wasn’t quite nailing the part yet.

I did, however, regret that my biochem final was less than a month away, my panic was already surging, and I had to resort to studying in snatches between orders. My fingers curled protectively around the solid shape of my textbook where it lay nestled in my leather bag. Today.

Before throwing open the door with its handmade Christmas wreath, I paused to inhale the cold, relishing the pleasant sting in my lungs as I exhaled a plume.

To my desert-born heart’s delight, the snow had started sooner than forecasted, its tiny, delicate flakes kissing the ground and adding a layer of silence to the streets.

There might come a time when I’d hate winter as most longtime New Englanders seemed to, but that time wasn’t now.

Once inside, enveloped in a blanket of roasty warmth, I cleared a pile of anarchist fliers and a gaudy pine garland off the counter and extricated my biochem textbook from my bag.

Then I grabbed a mug and a packet of Earl Grey, my fingers sliding against the damp surface before filling it with hot water.

Tea only, this afternoon. Staying awake was important, but too much caffeine would just goose my anxiety, and I couldn’t afford to lose time on that .

Over at the register, Malin, a freed slave girl Basia had hired to work with us until she could figure out what to do next, stood chewing on her ragged nails as she gaped at the computer display.

Basia put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Malin,” she said with a wink at me. “Take your time.”

“But they want a decaf, and there’s no button,” Malin said. “This is madness.”

Malin, tall, freckled, and curvy, had apparently spent most of her life as a personal maid and close companion for the teenage daughter of her master.

It sounded okay generally and explained her peculiar personality, except that, according to Basia, the master’s son had used Malin for another purpose.

In other words, she was another reminder that with slaves, it was never okay, ever.

Basia just laughed, threw a clean apron on the counter for me, and disappeared into the back.

“Put in regular, and I’ll give them decaf.

If I remember,” I finally told Malin, tying the apron over the thick, fuzzy sky-blue sweater I’d borrowed from Rebekah when the weather first turned cold, and so far had managed to avoid giving back.

Speaking of Rebekah, the Freedom Alliance had its meeting in the back office today, and I’d have to break it to Malin that we likely wouldn’t see our boss again all afternoon, even if the espresso machine spontaneously achieved sentience and began spewing scalding shots of coffee at everyone in an attempt at world domination.

“Hey, is that my sweater?” It was Rebekah, having just breezed in in her pearls, heading immediately for the back to meet Basia and Laken.

“No,” I said innocently, opening my textbook and ducking sheepishly as I realized I had not, in fact, remembered to give them decaf. “Also, your mom was on TV again this morning. I turned the sound off, but the closed captions are calling her ‘A Fighter for Responsible Servitude.’ So, congrats?”

She groaned. “Please just burn the television.”

“I would, but it’s the only thing distracting me from the fact that the third member of our household—he who refuses to be named—spent the entire morning fixing the sink shirtless and muttering insults under his breath."

“I told him to wear a shirt.”

“Well, he had one. It was just slung dramatically over his shoulder like some enslaved thirst trap.”

She exhaled through her teeth. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” I said. “You’re the one who took off his restraints.”

“Because I needed to know if I could trust him. And he needed to know he could trust me.”

“And?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted the strap of her bag and stared at the floor for a second too long.

“Let’s just say he hasn’t hurt anyone or stolen anything yet,” she said, “except maybe my last functioning nerve. At least he’s not one of the ones still out there,” she said, lowering her voice, as if this weren’t the one place in Boston where you could talk about such things without getting side-eyed or worse.

"The escaped slaves from the mine?” I'd never mentioned that I’d met one of them, though we’d kept in touch when he went underground again.

“The police think he’s helping them, though. Which is super helpful for my mom’s new platform.”

“Uh-huh. And is that why he’s also learning to bake bread?”

“Whole wheat. From scratch. To ‘contribute to the household.’”

“And totally not to fuck with you.”

“He asked me if I preferred my loaves ‘warm, soft, and obedient.’”

I nearly choked on my tea. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” she muttered, turning toward the back room. “Pray for me.”

The door chimed again and again as the afternoon caffeine rush began, people shivering and stamping fresh snow melt all over the wood floor.

With Malin at the counter, I took a position in my little nook by the espresso machine, my view of the door blocked by its massive copper piping and the stacks of cups, bracing myself for whatever today’s crisis would be.

Invariably, just when I thought I’d reached equilibrium, pulling shots and steaming milk like I’d done it for years, some nutcase would demand a quadruple extra-strong iced mocha latte served in an espresso cup, and it would all come crashing down again.

But I’d just remind myself that, like the rest of me, my barista skills were still gestating, like a beautiful caffeine-soaked butterfly trapped in an inept cocoon.

Also, Basia didn’t really care, given the point of this place was just to make enough money to destroy capitalism.

“See that man who just walked in?” Malin asked suddenly, spraying crumbs from a mouthful of giant chocolate-chip cookie from the bakery case.

Despite my better judgment, I both accepted her offer of a morsel and craned my neck to catch a glimpse.

“The one with the curly dark hair, deep-set eyes, and biceps that could crack a walnut?”

I folded my arms, letting the sweetness melt decadently in my mouth and toying with the idea of grabbing an entire cookie for myself. It was the most hazardous part of this job. “What about him?”

Malin swallowed quickly. “He’s running from the feds for sure.”

Malin was absolutely convinced that one of the countless mafia scions, international assassins, or incognito billionaires constantly entering the shop would finally whisk her away to Bali, or at least to the back seat of their car to finally give her the orgasm she so richly deserved.

Come to think of it, she actually had a lot in common with Maeve, if Maeve had chosen to take refuge in erotica instead of high fantasy.

“Oh, really?” I replied, feigning interest as I steamed milk for a latte. “What did he do?”

“He hacked into the defense department’s mainframe, of course,” Malin whispered dramatically. “And stole plans for a secret mind-control project.”

I suppressed a snort, but the customer at the counter must have overheard, given that he paid in cash and left a generous tip, those soulful eyes lingering on Malin’s breasts for a beat too long as he exited the shop.

“Better watch out,” I said. “He knows you have the inside scoop.”

“Oh, I’ll give him the inside scoop, all right,” Malin gloated with a bold little twist of her hips.

The shadows outside grew longer. The rimey haze shifted from blue to pink to lavender, punctuated by gusts of cold air, rosy cheeks, the hiss of espresso, and bells announcing customer after customer.

Malin and I swapped stories with the usual cast: the wired would-be screenwriter reimagining another fairy tale as a post-apocalyptic film noir.

The befuddled tourist demanding directions to Fenway Park in broken English.

And, inevitably, the green-haired young slave, as much punk rock as servile, balancing a teetering tray for the office workers he toiled for.

A future Milagros, maybe, dreaming of the stars.

Meanwhile, I kept juggling orders, chasing that equilibrium, squinting at my biochem notes splayed on the counter, snatching glances at the complex pathways of glycolysis and Krebs cycles between tamping grounds and steaming milk.

An hour later, despite the growing queue of orders on the screen, Malin sidled up beside me. I knew that look.

“Undercover royalty alert.”

“Oh yeah?” I quirked an eyebrow, never breaking my rhythm.

“I’m sure this one is absolutely, one hundred percent on a top-secret mission to marry a good-hearted commoner who loves him for who he really is.

” I managed to shift my attention once more back to my notes, blinking hard, trying to refocus and become the marvel of multitasking I knew I could be.

Just then, however, my phone vibrated from the pocket of my apron. Tempted to ignore it, I fished it out anyway, curiosity nagging at the back of my brain.

Daddy

Loulou, call me when you get off work. Everything’s fine. Love you.