Page 37 of Too Many Beds

Jessica A. McMinn

Content warnings: sexual assault | violence | emotional and physical abuse | drug trafficking and use

“ Bend over, grab your ankles, and cough three times.”

Those were the first words I heard in this place. Words that cleave my resolve in two as I walk the long corridor, gaze fixed on the back of the guard’s head, trying to think about anything other than those damn fucking words. The man has a bald patch—a scar, actually—and pondering its origins is a welcome distraction from the rattling bars and catcalls whistling out from the cells as we leave the main administration building.

I carry my world in a plastic basket: prison rags of blotchy beige; laceless canvas shoes; a toothbrush; and a cake of soap so obviously recycled that a curl of pubic hair still clings to its dimpled side. There’s a towel, small as it is—reportedly so I can’t hang myself or lynch a fellow inmate. What a comfort that is.

After a lengthy elevator ride, the guard leads me through yet another brightly lit corridor. I haven’t been around so much artificial light before—even after spending the week in remand since my arrest, my eyes still haven’t adjusted to the sharp whiteness of LED lamps. Is this what they hoard their precious electricity for? To banish even shadows from every corner of their world? These lights sting—painfully so. Like staring at the sun. I think I prefer the dark.

I’m too busy rubbing the burn from my eyes that I don’t notice the guard stop; I walk straight into his back. A shameful squeak of pain bursts from my lips as he pushes me away with an irate elbow. The post-arrest beating left my ribs tender and face a bloody mess—among other bruised and broken things.

“You won’t last a day in here,” he sneers.

Fuck you; I’ll last a lifetime if I have to.

We’d stopped before a thick steel door, solid save for a little barred window no larger than the scabby towel they gave me. My visage is displayed on a cracked holoscreen, a short, looped recording taken at the time of my arrest. Fuck, my face was so swollen you can barely see my eyes. It’s gone down now, I think, though maybe the bruising will give me a bit of cred in here. Make me look tough, less like I’m shitting myself.

Bend over, grab your ankles.

A code flickers beneath my mugshot: 38745612-P.

“Alright, 38745612-P—Eden Walsh—this is you,” the guard says, swiping his wrist across the lock panel. The door slides open. “For tonight. We’ll get you settled in your block tomorrow.”

He glares at me, ordering me inside without having to say or do anything. And I obey. Like a frightened fucking little child.

Black scuffs mark the otherwise pearlescent room, like someone’s shoes had scraped every surface in a fistfight. There’s a steel pallet suspended to my right and a toilet tucked away behind it in the back corner. It’s clinical. Cramped, but clean—better than what I’m used to.

“Will I be assigned to D?” I ask, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice.

The guard raises an eyebrow. “Keen to bunk down with the top dog, are you, kid? He’ll welcome someone like you with open arms! Right, boys?” he calls out over his shoulder and a chorus of hoots and howls erupt from the surrounding cells. Faces press against small, barred openings and I catch enough glimpses of hungry eyes and rabid, lapping tongues to send a shiver down my spine. The guard guffaws at my discomfort and slaps me on the back; I stumble further into the cell, my soft-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

“Lights out, kid.”

The overhead strobes shut off as the door swishes closed, chiming cheerily as the lock engages. Silence fills the wing but not for long: a low chant rumbles to life, rising like a slow-moving tsunami on the horizon.

“… eat … ew meat … new meat … new meat … new meat …”

My skin prickles as the chant reaches a crescendo. I cover my head with my hands, trying to block out the calls. Is this how those long-extinct animals felt? The ones our ancestors hunted for food? I feel sick to my stomach. Exposed and vulnerable, locked in a cage. Have I made a terrible mistake?

“ Enough! ”

The shout silences the prisoners like the dead. I can breathe again, but not comfortably. I curl over on myself, feeling more alone than I ever have. I’m not used to this … faceless segregation. I’m used to the slums of overcrowded—over flowing —cities. To too many people crammed onto too little land left above sea-level. To life in powerless shacks with seven other people, all working minimum wage on a factory production line. Out there, I was never truly alone, even when I was on my own—the device in my arm saw to that. It kept me connected with live news and friends via comm links. But now …

My thumb ghosts over an inch-long incision in my wrist, neatly sutured with transparent thread. It had been the Authority’s first act following my arrest—the removal of my device. No warning, no anaesthetic. Just a hot scalpel, burning and tearing as it mined my flesh for something half the size of a fingernail. With one flick, my whole identity—my whole existence—popped out into a dish. Every piece of me was tied to that chip. Without it, I have nothing; I am nothing. I can’t contact anybody. Can’t access the digital archives or consume any media that’s not physically stored on obsolete technology.

It was something I hadn’t considered, when I got myself arrested. Hadn’t considered how … isolating it would be. I felt untethered—adrift, like one of the fluorescent buoys off the coast that marked where the edge of the continent had once been. So far, far away …

“You wanted this, Walsh,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth. “Pull yourself together.”

But it’s not this I want—it’s him . Tarrant O’Connor. My compass. My lifeline.

My lover.

I’ll endure anything to be with him again.

“I’m gonna fuck you up, pretty boy!”

Even this.

“The first night’s always the hardest.”

A disembodied voice echoes through to my cell; I straighten, pulse skipping. “Wh-what?” I stammer, thrown off-centre by the gentle, almost warm tone.

“The first night in the Plunge.”

“What?”

A dry chuckle.

“Where are you?” I dare to demand.

“The next cell. There’s a vent in the wall. Beneath the cot. No, you can’t open it and break out.”

“I don’t want to break out,” I mumble, and edge towards the steel pallet that serves as a bed. The thin, stiff mattress is so unforgiving the springs don’t even buckle as I sit. As hard and cold as stone—just like home.

My thumb rubs the wound again as I clear my throat. “You said something about the Plunge ?”

“Ah, yes. The Plunge—the Plunge cells. That’s where we are. Hundreds of metres below the sea. The Authority’s version of solitary confinement.”

Panic fills my mouth. Solitary? No, that can’t be right. I was only processed hours ago. I can’t be caged here, alone, forever. I’m supposed to be in there, with him .

“We all start in the Plunge, kid,” the voice says with a calming lilt. “As a warning. ‘This is what awaits you if you step out of line.’ But you’ll be alright. Keep your head down and you won’t be back.”

A shiver prickles across my skin and I swallow. “And … what … what about you?”

The man gives a low, purr-like chuckle. “I don’t keep my head down.”

I don’t sleep much that night. There’s a scattering of threats and sexual comments but it’s the silence that gets to me. The silence that reminds me I’m alone. Disconnected. Underwater. That’s really what keeps me awake. Knowing I’m somewhere deep beneath the ocean and water could crush down on me in seconds. I can’t stop thinking about it. The image is persistent; uncomfortable. Like a cold fingertip slipping down my spine.

The man never speaks again. I try to strike up conversation as I lie there in the dark, but he doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t hear me. Maybe he’s asleep. Or maybe—I swallow—he was never there. Fuck. I’m already insane. The Plunge has broken me before I made it to my actual cell.

Before I got to see Tarrant.

The control panel outside my room chimes; it must be dawn. Without my device or even any windows to see the sky, I have no idea what time it is, but the bleary-eyed stare of the guard standing in the doorway suggests someone at the end of a long night shift.

“Congratulations,” the dishevelled blonde woman says dryly. “You’ve survived your first night.” She glances at a holoscreen projected from her device. “Might be the best sleep you ever have in here. Looks like you’ve been assigned to D.”

My heart thumps. D’s the top dog’s kennel—or so they told me in processing. And in here, the top dog is king. Stand by his side and be protected. Get in his way and?—

“C’mon,” the guard says, almost sympathetic. “The quicker you settle in, the easier it’ll be.”

“Keep my head down, right?” I swallow, recalling the stranger’s advice from last night.

“Exactly.”

We take the elevator back to the surface and, instead of passing through the administrative holding cells, turn right towards the main compound. We’re at ground level, as far as I can tell, and I even catch a glimpse of sky as we pass between buildings. I soon see a lot more of it as we enter the caged yard, where inmates are getting their morning sun.

“Oi, get a load of this pretty boy, fellas. Well, I’ll be damned.”

So much for keeping my head down.

All eyes turn to me the moment the door hisses closed. Instinct screams for me to freeze and I do, helpless like the beast I once saw caught in the crosshairs of a rifle in an old, illegal movie. It’s the second time I’ve felt exposed and vulnerable and somehow, I don’t think it will be the last.

Bend over, grab your ankles.

The guard finally turns back and notices I’ve lagged, paralysed at the threshold of the yard. She sighs, her hand travelling to the holster of the sleek chrome pistol at her hip—standard-issue among the Authority.

“Alright, back off, you lot,” she warns, putting herself between me and the hungry inmates. “Give him a chance. He’s not even settled into his bunk yet.”

“Perhaps I can help with that, Fargus.”

The deep, smooth timbre of a man’s voice shivers across my flesh. It colours me with hope, comforting and familiar yet intimidating with anonymity among the crowd.

The guard sets her jaw stiffly but decides against drawing the pistol. “Come along then. The rest of you: back up.”

The inmates part like a sea for this apparent saviour to step forward. I expect a behemoth of a man. Someone dangerous and deadly and covered in scars.

But it’s just a man. A man almost indistinguishable from the swell of beige jumpsuits, with a short crop of dark hair and stubble sprinkled across his cheeks. He’s not much bigger than the others, but he walks like he’s ten feet tall, with his hands low in his pockets and a self-assured smirk on his lips.

It’s him.

It’s really him .

I tremble, knuckles turning white from my fierce grip on the basket as I try to keep my feet. Every inch of my being burns at the sight of him. I can’t act on it. Not yet. Not here.

He steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder, letting it sit there just a little too long. “Welcome,” he says with a feline grin. “Call me Tarrant. I’m your top dog. Let’s get you settled in.”

I nod meekly and follow Fargus, Tarrant falling into step behind me. I’m acutely aware of his presence now. Aware of his proximity, of the heat from his body and whisper of his breath. I set my gaze on the back of Fargus’s head just as I did before. Hair spills from her bun. That’s strange. Every guard I’ve seen has been as immaculate and polished as the Authority’s chrome pistols. Perfect and shiny like the high-rise buildings of the socially important citizens remaining in the world’s capitals—not dirty and broken like the cogs turning aimlessly beneath them.

Cogs like me.

Like Tarrant.

“So where are we taking our new friend?” Tarrant asks Fargus.

“D,” she says without turning. “Reid’s old cell.”

“Ah, we’re going to be neighbours.” Tarrant gives a low, rumbling chuckle. “Lucky me.”

The inmates’ attitude changes now Tarrant escorts me through the yard. Instead of jeers and wolf whistles, it’s now calculating stares and muffled whispers. About me? About Tarrant? It doesn’t matter; it’s forgotten when Fargus scans us through another heavy doorway with the same irritatingly chipper chime from her device.

I expect D Block to be like the Plunge: a long white corridor lined with cells. It’s nothing like that. It’s homely … in a sparse kind of way. We stand in some sort of shared living space, not unlike the abandoned home I used to squat in. There’s a couch; a couple of archaic PKTs (personal knowledge tablets) I thought had gone out of circulation when they started fitting implant devices at birth; equally rare and outdated print journals; and a small refreshments station along the back wall, complete with mugs, a hot water cistern and jars of synthetic tea and coffee tabs. My heart gives a little flip. Out there, I was lucky to find fresh water most days, let alone have something to flavour it with. Anyone with an active device ID can access a daily ration of all-in-one NourishPodz but there’s never anything recreational —food, drink or otherwise. That’s why people like Tarrant?—

Another sound chirps from Fargus’s device and this time, a projection fills the space before her. A guard appears in the flickering image but the message is encrypted and inaudible to anyone but Fargus and her earpiece. She gives a stiff nod and shuts off the message.

“Eden Walsh,” she says. “That’s you. Cell 4. I’ll leave your top dog to give the tour.”

She hurries off, the door hissing closed behind her.

“Well,” he says, sauntering towards me with both hands slung low in his pockets. “That’s your cell. That’s mine.” He gestures flippantly at each door. “Which one do you want to fuck in first?”

I drop my basket and raise my arms to loop around his shoulders as he drags me in for a kiss. His mouth is hot and frenzied as we tumble through the open door of his cell where he pushes me against the wall with a thud. He’s just as I remember—full of heat and hope and hard all over. I gasp a breathy moan as Tarrant sucks my neck, hungrily biting then soothing it with his wet tongue.

“T-Tarrant,” I pant, his knee forcing my thighs apart. He doesn’t listen—doesn’t hear me. Our hips grind together, erect cocks pulsing at the friction through our prison rags. Tarrant’s hands are inside my clothes, tugging the coarse fabric aside to expose me to the chill air of the room. My skin prickles under his hot caress.

“Tarrant … Are we … Can we? The door’s open. Are there cameras?”

Tarrant withdraws and I turn cold. He studies me with smoky intensity, hazel eyes dark as he brings his hand to stroke a tangle of hair from my forehead.

“Baby, I fucking own this place,” he growls. “I do what I want.”

He thrusts two fingers into my mouth and I suck them desperately, tongue curling around each digit because I know what’s coming and I want it. I want it so badly I got myself arrested—locked up just to be here with him.

I press further into the wall, hitching my legs around Tarrant’s hips to brace myself off the ground. Clothes discarded somewhere, Tarrant grips my naked thighs and curls one hand around to enter me. To probe me. To stretch me. To fuck me with saliva-slick fingers. Shit, that feels good. I groan and bury myself in the crook of his neck, hands battling for something to hold, to squeeze—flesh and clothes in lieu of hair, which is cut so short I can’t pull it. It’s hot. Dangerous and sexy. I bite his ear.

Tarrant bucks and slams me into the wall; air leaves my lungs with a hiss.

“That was naughty,” he growls. “Go on. Try it again.”

Brash arousal pulls my lips to a smirk. I lunge, but instead of catching Tarrant’s earlobe in my teeth, he catches me in a searing kiss. His commanding tongue forces its way into my mouth and I melt— whimper —at the long-forgotten pleasure burning through my body until he pulls away.

I slip back to earth. Rejection chills me like ice. I’m about to beg an apology for my boldness when I see him retrieve something from beneath the mattress—lotion or oil or something.

He grabs my wrist and slings me onto the bed like a rag. I land face first into the pillow and am immediately consumed by the heady scent of him. Our bed in the slums stopped smelling like this months ago.

Tarrant swipes a swathe of cold gel across my entrance before mounting me, his hard, slick cock pushing in deep. I moan and grab fistfuls of the sheets. My toes curl and clench.

We lose ourselves in the rhythm of grinding hips and breathy pants. Tarrant’s head comes to rest on my spine, right between my shoulder blades where I’m most sensitive, as he thrusts wildly, pounding me into the mattress with every thrust. Oh God, it feels so fucking good; I suck my lower lip between my teeth to catch a moan.

“T-Tar—” My body clamps hard around Tarrant’s cock as I take hold of my own, pumping in time with his thrusts. “—rant.”

He pulls my wrist away and replaces my grip with his own. Oh fuck, I’m so close. I don’t want it to end, but it feels too good and Tarrant’s so lust-sick he keeps pumping and ramming and pumping and— fuck .

I come, violent but silent with my lower lip between my teeth. Jesus fucking Christ. My body ripples as Tarrant fills me, his dying thrusts pushing deeper despite his fading strength. We collapse to the bed, sweat-soaked and spent, Tarrant coating me like a sheet—like a shield against the world. Everything about this moment is perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, my eyes cracking open to a growing stain, red and sticky, on the bed by my hand. My wrist is bleeding; Tarrant must have popped the stitches when he grabbed me.

“What happened?” he asks, slightly panicked as he rolls off me, bringing my hand close to his face for inspection. “They took your device already?” Lips press against the wound in a tender kiss.

I nod, lightheaded and breathless as Tarrant’s finger traces over the incision.

“Christ, Ede, what’d you do?”

I could have done anything—stolen rations, taken unauthorised leave from work, read a book—but I needed something that would put me away for a while. Something that would assure me of a reunion with Tarrant. I didn’t think getting locked up would mean immediate removal of my implant. Most infractions saw the device deactivated for a day or two, maybe a week—a temporary disconnect as means of rehabilitation towards acceptable social practices. Guess I never do things by half.

“I got caught dealing,” I say, surprisingly sheepish. “Or rather, got myself implicated in your alleged operation. The guys helped pin?—”

“You what ?” Tarrant’s hand curls around my throat, fire in his eyes.

“I couldn’t be out there without you!” I snap, pushing back against him. “The runners aren’t loyal to me, not really. I had no authority, no friends—nothing. Just the lost little pup you left behind. So when I heard Henly was planning a way to get your sentence reduced, I offered to take the fall. They pinned the moonshine tabs on me. Now the Authority’s case against you is weak. You won’t get life. And in the meantime …” I run my hand up Tarrant’s thigh. “I get to be with you.”

Tarrant’s grip relaxes. “When did you get so clever?” he asks, stroking my neck instead.

“I learnt from the best.” I lean forward to steal a kiss.

“Hmm,” Tarrant muses as we part, fingers twirling the hair at my nape. “Let’s hope you’re as useful to me in here.”

T arrant wasn’t exaggerating when he said he owns the prison. As top dog, nothing happens without his approval and if it did, well, there’s hell to pay. Even the guards defer to him. Let him handle minor insurrections so long as it upholds the overall ‘peace.’ I learn quickly that if you aren’t with Tarrant, you’re against him—and that’s a very dangerous place to be.

“Keven’s dealing,” Kon, a short bald man with a limp, mutters in Tarrant’s ear during the morning work order. We’d all been assigned to Podz production—a deal Tarrant most likely arranged with the guards to ensure his crew are at hand if he needs them. From what I can glean, Kon is some sort of deputy—a 2-I-C to Tarrant’s command.

“I put some pressure on that runt, Percy,” Kon continues. “Boy bent easier than a bloody sheet of paper. Sold Keven out almost immediately. He’s having dissolvable tabs of moonshine and phets brought in under your very nose and he’s not even using our runners to do so.”

“So how is he doing it?” Tarrant asks, eyes never leaving the production belt he’s supervising.

“Dunno, boss,” Kon admits sheepishly. “Might require some more pressure. On Keven himself.”

Tarrant clicks his tongue. “That’ll take more than some finger-twisting in the showers,” he mutters. He punches the large red button below the conveyer, bringing the whole line to a screeching halt.

“What are you doing?” the guard shouts. “Still two hours left on this work order.”

“Labeller’s jammed,” Tarrant calls casually. “Need to show the new kid how to fix it. Eden, with me.”

He swings an arm around my shoulder and guides me away from the others. We stop in front of the large machine in the back of the room responsible for labelling and sealing the NourishPodz ready to be rationed. My heart hammers, half expecting Tarrant to ravish me as he so often does when we’re alone. Not that I mind. My lips part in anticipation.

“How much do you love me?” Tarrant asks huskily, his breath hot on my cheek.

“Is getting myself arrested enough or do you need an actual figure?”

Tarrant gives a dry chuckle then offers a quick peck; I suck his lip between mine, trying to claim more.

“I need your help, baby.”

Before I whisper ‘anything’ like a simpering fool, Tarrant hooks an elbow around my neck to direct my gaze.

“See that man over there? Tall, black hair. Scar on his neck?” Tarrant points at the figure he just described with a subtle flick of his hand. “That’s Grey Peter. Don’t know how he got the name, but I do know he’s pretty tight with our friend Keven. Not sharing-a-bed-tight, but tight. He’ll know all about his little drug operation.”

I swallow, nerves dancing as we watch the man kick the synthetic food mixer like he’s trying to bust open an old box. “I … uh … Don’t think I’m the right man for getting intel out of someone.” I’m surprised he’d even ask me this; breaking fingers in dark rooms is hardly my forte.

“Don’t need intel, sweetheart, just a distraction. You head over to his cell during rec time after supper and just … keep him busy. Talk his ear off. Put that beautiful mouth to use.”

I hesitate, and he adds, “You’re here to be useful, aren’t you?”

I’m here because I missed you. “Yes. Yes, Tarrant, of course I am. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.’”

Tarrant flashes his wicked grin and pats me on the cheek. “Of course you will, baby. Now back to work before the top dog notices you slacking.”

T arrant’s gone over the plan three times already and it’s beginning to set my nerves alight. Self-doubt prickles up my arms with each passing second as we wait around the corner in C Block for Grey Peter to return to his cell after supper.

“Got it. And no one else will be here?” I ask again.

“C spends this time in the gym. Apparently, our mate Peter doesn’t care too much about improving his stamina for the betterment of the Authority. Why don’t you go find out why?” Tarrant tucks a blond curl behind my ear, the achingly tender gesture bringing a hot tightness to my belly. “Make sure you give Kon and I enough time to have a nice long chat to Keven about his … ambitions.”

“I will. I promise.”

Tarrant presses a kiss to my temple, as firm and reassuring as a clap on the shoulder. I want to fold into him, to beg for another way to be useful. I’ve never been a smooth talker; I can’t lie my way out of a paper bag. My role with Tarrant’s gang on the outside is supportive—the lookout sent to raise the alarm if a deal goes bad.

I suck in a deep breath. “What if I?—”

“Shh, he’s coming.”

With that, Tarrant disappears down the corridor, canvas shoes whisper-quiet on the scuffed floor.

My heart leaps into my mouth and I try to make my visit look casual and curious. It’s rec time, so the door to C Block’s common room is open, waiting for the inmates to return to their cells for the 9pm headcount. I tuck my hands into my pockets to hide their shaking and step into the empty lounge.

It’s messier than ours; the PKTs and old journals are scattered about the room, one open and dog-eared to an article about refining the flavour profiles of NourishPodz. Horridly dry stuff.

“You lost, little lamb?”

I nearly shit myself. I turn to see Grey Peter fill the doorway, his jumpsuit undone and hair still wet from the showers. His chest is mangled with scars and I realise now that his left eye is colourless—blind.

Grey.

“I, uh …” I swallow the stone in my throat and back away. My calves collide with the couch, knocking me down on my arse. “Just thought I’d … get to know some of the other p-people in here. Hi. I’m Eden.” I stretch out my hand; he doesn’t take it.

“Peter,” he grunts. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. Immediately my hair goes up. I feel it prickle across my whole body, telling me to run.

“So how you want to do this?”

Do what? I should ask, but the words don’t form.

“I can take you right here.” He shrugs out of his sleeves. “Or we can take it to my cell. Your choice.”

I stare, frozen and afraid as the rest of Grey Peter’s clothes fall to his feet. He steps out of the pooled jumpsuit, kicking at the stubborn pant leg still clinging to his ankle. With a casual stride, he approaches, his half-erect cock level with my eyeline. I try to scoot back on my hands and feet but the couch is behind me; I’ve got nowhere to go.

“Tarrant said you got a good mouth on you,” Peter says. He reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging my face towards his groin. “Let’s find out.”

“No!” I screech and shove myself free. It’s Peter’s turn to stumble now. He falls backward over the low table, knocking PKTs and journals flying. I make a run for the door. He grabs my ankle. I fall on my face, cold cement slapping my cheek as air hisses from my lungs. He’s on top of me now, grabbing my limbs, trying to roll me onto my back despite my flailing protests.

The punch hits me right on the jaw and my lip splits. Blood fills my mouth. Peter lowers his face to mine and kisses me, tongue curling to lap at the wound. His body covers mine so completely, I can’t move—I can’t do anything but stare wide-eyed into his scarred face.

“Mmm, that’s better,” he says, smacking his lips as if savouring the last drop of a particularly tasty Pod. “I always like it when they struggle. What do you say, little lamb? Gonna put on a show for me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, tense every muscle in my body, and hope against all hell that I buy Tarrant enough time to make it worth it.

I stagger back to D Block, arm curled around ribs I’m sure Peter must’ve cracked. Everything hurts—my jaw, my chest, my arse. Blood trickles from my nose and lip and I can already feel it starting to swell, tight and hot.

Tight and hot , I scoff. That’s what he said about me.

Tarrant’s sitting on the couch when I return to the common room, head bowed low in hushed conversation with Kon. The other man notices me first, a bemused grin splitting his lips.

“Oh shit,” he says and my head is so fucked it almost sounds … impressed?

“Eden.” Tarrant pales. I must look worse than I feel, if that’s even possible. “Get out,” he barks at Kon and rises to meet me. I melt into his embrace. I think I start to cry.

Everything passes in a blur. I end up in Tarrant’s cell, on his bed, back against the wall as he blots blood from the cuts on my face. He’s gentle and sweet, but I don’t look him in the eye—I can’t. I just sit there, staring past him at the cold white wall of his cell. When he finishes cleaning my face, he eases himself onto the bed beside me, arm curling around my shoulders to pull me close. Lips press against the top of my head in a long, tender kiss.

“You did great, baby,” he says softly, resting his cheek against my temple. “So brave. I’m proud of you.”

“Did you get what you needed from Keven?” My voice cracks.

“No, I didn’t need to. Grey Peter was the one bringing in the gear. Now, thanks to your … persuasive actions … he’ll be working for me, using my network. Keven is cut off. I retain sole control over the supply of phets and nobody had to get hurt.”

I jerk violently away from his touch. “ I got hurt!” I spit, hot tears filling my eyes. “Doesn’t that matter to you?”

“Shh, baby, of course it does.” Tarrant strokes my cheek and turns my face back towards him. “That wasn’t supposed to happen—it won’t happen again.”

Again . The word sticks in my throat.

“Look, you wanted to be useful, didn’t you?” he asks, fingers twirling my hair. “This is the best way. Once you have power in here, you have to keep it. And I abhor violence, you know that. I gain loyalty through favours, not fear. Always have.”

Free samples —that’d always been Tarrant’s prime marketing move. Share a taste of his finest product and the buyers will always come back. I used to think it was brilliant.