Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I stopped smoking years ago, but I wrap my coat around my body and take the packet I nicked from Gautier out onto the balcony. Lighting one up, I drag the smoke into my lungs. If she’s suffering, so will I. It’s the least I can give her. Stripping naked, I bare my body to the cold. As always, the freezing pain settling in my toes and fingers grounds me.
I don’t finish the cigarette.
I put it out on my chest.
Chapter 7
Zoe
When I doze off, the rats soon discover I’m a harmless target and nip at the exposed flesh of my wrists and even at my legs through my tights. I swat and kick at them, but they’re becoming fearless, even taking their chances when I’m awake. The broken skin burns at first, but after a while the cold numbs everything, so much so I don’t feel the bite of pain as their sharp teeth gnaw at my flesh. The best way of warding them off is moving, but they follow and try to climb up my legs when they can’t bite through my boots.
By the time the sun comes up, I’m exhausted and cold to my core. It’s as if the damp has infiltrated my bones. I can’t stand on my feet anymore. I think the rats may kill me before I starve. I’m not sure which is the most merciful. My stockings are torn and the expensive clothes ruined, dirty from the damp and black mold on the walls. It stinks worse than my apartment building down here.
Leaning against the wall, I kick at a rat that climbs onto the toe of my boot. The slosh of the water is quieter. It’s low tide. There’s something else, too, like the fall of a hammer. It comes closer. No, it’s the fall of footsteps. My heart starts thundering in my chest when they descend down the steps. I brace myself, praying for rescue, but the door swings open on Maxime’s face.
He’s wearing a pale suit with a pink tie, and his face is clean-shaven. When he opens the gate and enters my prison, a whiff of winter reaches my nostrils. It’s clean and fresh, a stark contrast to my dirt and exhaustion, like a magnifying glass on his cruelty. He’s cold and monstrous.
He’s not my savior.
I back away, but he grips my hair with one hand, and carefully pulls off the tape with the other. It hurts. The skin on my lips stretches and cracks. I drag my tongue over them and taste blood.
Something inside me snaps. My vision turns blurry.
He turns me around to undo the cuffs. The moment my hands are free, I jump at him. I claw and hit, screaming like a mad person. I must be mad, because what I should be doing is escaping. I kick. I punch him in the gut. He only stands there and takes it, my blows doing no damage. After the next fist I jam into his stomach, I shove him and run.
I’m not even on the first step before he grabs hold of my ankle. I go down, stopping my fall with my hands. The heels of my palms burn as the skin comes off, but I kick with all my might. I dig my fingers into the stone, my nails breaking as he drags me back into my cell.
“No!”
He flips me onto my back and covers my mouth with his hand. My lips are pulled back, my jaw wide. I bite down until the pressure of his hand becomes so severe, I think my skull may crack.
“Are you done?” he asks through thin lips.
I shake my head, but we both know I am. The fight goes out of me, my energy spent.
“If you scream,” he says, “I’ll leave. I can do this for days until you’re ready to listen.”
When I go still, he removes his hand. “That’s better.”
I lie on my back on the damp stones, the wetness seeping through my coat and dress, through my very skin and into my heart. He’s crouching next to me, studying me with one arm braced on his knee. His frame is big and powerful. The shadow he casts over me swallows me whole. Somehow, it seems darker and colder than the winter night I spent in my cell.
“I want you to listen to me, Zoe.”
My gaze homes in on his face, on the non-symmetrical lines of his features and the bump on the bridge of his nose.
“When I take you home,” he continues in his musical accent, “you have a choice.”
My hope lifts a fraction. “To South Africa?”
“To France.”
The words are a punch. I don’t know how many more punches I can take. I force the question from numb lips. “What choice?”
“It can be like yesterday, like the day we spent, or it can be like this.” He motions around the space. “What you decide is entirely up to you, but you should know that each choice comes with a price.”