Fifty-One
Present
Miles
They’re going to kill him. Not in the physical sense. But his soul…
Just when he’s finally found himself.
Miles doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, his back against the wall of Cassius’ Harem. Cassius is sitting on his fucking throne, looking like some omniscient cunt with the world at his feet.
Yeah, fucking right.
When you’re in here, in the fucking Dungeon, the world is not at your fucking feet.
Miles crosses his arms, studying his new environment, listening in on every conversation without appearing overly obvious. It’s like prison, but the most radicalized form of one. He needs to relearn this world all over again. He needs to remember how to stay alive. Because it’s not just the fighting pit you’re up against. It’sthis—the living inside it part. He’d rather be in isolation, but he’s seen what it’s done to men. They never come out quite like themselves.
His body is hard, his mind is sharp, but his heart—it’s gone soft.
Miles shuts his eyes, breathes through his nose, tries to tell himself he can be that way again—that horrible, fighting monster from before. That biker, that violent joker, that ruthless asshole that smiled in a way that made everyone’s stomachs turn.
But the loneliness…it’s worse now because he knows what he’s missing. He’s had a taste of the other side.
Of happiness.
Of family.
Of hope.
He hears a lock click open from nearby. The doors are opening. More prisoners, then. Or whores judging by the sudden quiet. He opens his eyes to look at them. Three are wading inside, brand new girls judging by their hesitancy. But one—
One is lagging.
One is turning her back at the door as it starts to close, and she looksangry.
A defiant one.
She’ll be broken.
Except—
Miles’ heart slows as he pushes off the wall, his body suddenly zipping with adrenaline. His head feels so light, it might float away from his fucking body. He might collapse right here and sob at her fucking feet.
“Princess,” he whispers, and he realizes his mistake the second she turns to the sound of his voice. She stills at the sight of him—and no, fuck no, please, Skye, don’t be running to him.
She’s a second away from being in his arms, and he’s stiff, he’s fucking stiff, because they’re all fucking watching. They’re going to tear her—and him—apart.
“Stop,” he demands, gripping her arms tightly before she finds her way inside his embrace. He shakes at her in a way that might appear too rough, too unfriendly. “Don’t fucking touch me, whore.”
She goes still, appearing confused for a beat, and it wrecks him. It kills him to see that flash of pain, like he’s hurt her. He gives her that look—the look she knows damn well. That, “I’m sorry for being a dick” look, and instantly she steps back, barely nodding in response.
She doesn’t look like herself. She’s got bruises all over her body. She’s wearing this fucked up looking piece of cloth, and her body is on display to these ravenous cunts. Miles can hardly protect himself—how the fuck is he going to protect her, too?
“What are you doing here?” he hisses, his horror hard to contain. “Why the fuck are you here, Skye?”
Skye’s teeth begin chattering, her fear swirling in her eyes as she looks at him now, smiling sadly. His gut is tight. His chest feels heavy. He would give anything to embrace her, to wipe away that sadness and put light back into her eyes.
She licks her dried lips and says, “You. I came here foryou.”