Page 38 of The Survivors (The Children of the Sun God #4)

Niki

“He showed me I could be more than my pain—he showed me I could be precious.”

They all think I’m a simple-minded fool. They are fools, laboring under the memories of what was done to us, dragging their pain like chains they cannot break. I know what they think when they look at me. They believe I don’t understand the burdens of the past. But I understand it too well.

I’ve walked past the bodies leading out of the labyrinth more times than I can count. Every time Basil, Ioannis, Ambrose, or the others took me to a human, the bodies were there—a silent reminder of what happens to those who don’t play the game. Those were the lucky ones.

My sister, my friends—they still suffer. I see their pain in the way they flinch, in the hollow look in their eyes. They carry it every moment of every day, as if it’s fused to their skin. I found a way to escape from mine, to bury it under layers of innocence I can’t reclaim, but can pretend to wear.

At least, I did, until Michail crossed the barrier. The barrier that kept us all prisoners.

Michail. My mate. He doesn’t look at me the way the others do. When he speaks to me, he doesn’t speak down to me. When I revert to my younger self—the self where I’m innocent, untouched—he doesn’t mock me or treat me like a child. He treats me as someone who deserves respect, care, and patience.

He’s patient. He’s kind. He’s protective.

I’m not so simple-minded that I don’t understand why he does it. He wants me to feel safe. But safety is a strange thing for someone like me. When I was a child, there were no truly safe places. Those who controlled us beat me for spilling water or not moving fast enough. The beatings became something I could endure. I hardened myself to them.

It’s what they made me do after I became a woman that I couldn’t endure.

I don’t want to be a woman. Being a woman meant pain, shame, and losing pieces of myself I never thought I could lose. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to feel. But Michail—he makes me feel.

The others treat me like the child I pretend to be. But Michail…he treats me like the men in movies treat women. I’ve seen movies before. Some of the men I was forced to meet turned on TVs to drown out the noise from the goings on in the shitty motels we met at. The hum of dialogue, the brightness of the screen—it gave me something to cling to when they tore at my soul.

I wonder if I have any soul left to give to Michail. I’ve done nothing to hold on to it. I always assumed I’d end up in the pile with the others, just another body leading out of the labyrinth.

But Michail brought me dresses. Dresses like the ones the beautiful women wore in those movies. Soft, flowing fabrics that swirled when I moved. I love dresses, but it’s not the dresses that have begun to crack the wall I built around myself. It’s the things he says.

This morning, a few of the women tried to help carry water after he first arrived. It’s what we’re forced to do every morning, afternoon, and night. But Michail gently put his foot down.

“It is time you learned how precious and valuable you are by allowing us to serve you,” he said, his voice firm but kind.

The women smiled at him, hesitant at first, then with real appreciation. His words were a gift they hadn’t expected, an ointment for wounds they’d forgotten could heal.

For me, it was something more. A flood opened in my senses, washing over years of numbness. I wanted to understand what he meant.

Later that night, sitting around the fire, I find the courage to ask him. “Show me,” I say .

He tilts his head, and his dark eyes catch the firelight. “Show you what?”

“What you meant by how precious and valuable I am to you.” My voice wavers, but I force myself to continue. “How would you serve me if I left with you?”

He smiles. A dimple appears in his right cheek. Something about that smile sends a flutter through my stomach—a strange but welcome sensation.

“Can we go for a walk?” he asks, standing and offering me his hand.

I hesitate before placing my hand in his. His touch is warm. Something ignites in my stomach. A good something, although not something I can explain or understand.

As we walk into the cool night air, his presence beside me acts like a shield, a promise. I let myself imagine what it might be like to step beyond the labyrinth. To step into a world where I’m not defined by my pain but by something else.

By him.