Chapter Five - Picked
Sky's Pov
The wind kept slipping in through the open window.
It wasn't strong or loud, it just flowed smoothly. Enough to remind us we were still alive but barely holding on from the freezing cold.
It whispered across the bare floor and danced over our wet skin. No warmth, no fire, nothing. No light but the moon that poured in like a cold judgment from the gods.
We sat on the floor, naked and shivering. Our bodies still damp.
Our knees were pulled tight to our chests, arms folded across what little we had to protect. Skin clung to skin as we leaned into each other for warmth.
No one spoke anymore. The room didn’t echo with sobs now, just silence. The silence of the defeated.
It's been six days of repeated punishment. Six cruel and harsh days and by now one would think we'd adapt but that wasn't the case.
Six days since I woke up in that cage.
Six days of cold water beatings, sprayed on cue, morning and night. No words cam along with it, nor reason. Just the sudden hiss of pressure, the scream of cold down your spine, and the soft, satisfied laugh of someone watching from the dark.
Six days of being naked, vulnerable, ignored.
They tossed us food once a day, if you could call it food. Just bits of bread. Dry and moldy. Sometimes they were crumbs, thrown at us like we were animals. And we fought for it, fought with cracked nails and brittle strength, clawing for pieces of crust just to make the ache in our stomachs pause for a while.
Every once in a while… someone was taken.
No warnings were giving. No reason either.
The iron gate would groan open. A name would be barked and hands would grab the bearer of the name.
The girl would scream or cry, or sometimes just go quietly from lack of strength to put up a fight.
And when she came back hours later, her body would be limp, eyes hollowed out and she wouldn’t speak.
Some of them shook all night. Some never blinked again.
None of us dared to ask questions. We just knew our fates were sealed.
The darkness didn’t offer answers. Only more cold, more waiting.
I pressed my chin against my knees and stared into the shadows, trying to remember what warmth felt like. What clothes felt like. What touch without malice felt like.
Mira's words from years ago echoed in my mind: You’ll be safe this way. It’s best this way.
Was this the safety she meant?
My thoughts were broken by the sound that made my stomach twist in dread—The sound of the gate creaking.
Boots walked in from the dim light. Two pairs.
"Up," one barked. "Or you'll get dragged out."
I froze, my gaze temporarily landing on the figures who I couldn't see properly. A light flared from behind them. A torch, illuminating the chamber like the cruel eye of some bored god.
He pointed. "Her. The orange haired one."
No. No, not me.
"Please." I hissed from what little strength I had left in me.
They stepped in and I scrambled backward.
"No—don't touch me!" I screamed, my voice raw and unused. "No—please no."
Their hands were like iron. They gripped my arms and dragged me out, ignoring my kicking legs, my thrashing body. The other girls didn't look at me. They couldn’t, out of fear.
I was shoved through a side hallway, brighter than I remembered. Clean stone. Carpeted. Velvet drapes hanging by he sides. Like I’d stepped into another world.
They brought me to a chamber. As soon as I stepped in, the smell hit first—steam, then soap and oil.
A tub stood at the center of the room. Filled with hot water, the steam clouding the view.
I was too shocked to speak that all I could do was stare. Was this place in the same vicinity as the cold hard ground we had laid on for days?
Without warning, one of the ladies in the room tilted a bucket and poured it over me.
It scalded in a different way than the cold had. I gasped, not from pain, but from the relaxing feeling. My body stung, came alive again. Something I hadn't felt in ages.
They scrubbed me down like I was a doll, lifting arms roughly, tilting my head back to get every angle. I froze in their arms, not being able to move as the handled me.
They didn’t speak to me, their gazes were on every curve and contour of my body. Their hands squeezed my breasts and lifted them, scrubbing away the dirty from years ago that had clung to my skin.
Their hands went further down, maybe a little too intimate as they scrubbed my private area aggressively. They parted, poked and cleaned every inch of it, causing my knees to weaken under their hold.
"She's sensitive," one of them hissed. "A fine one this time."
"Yes, she is." The other lady replied as she handled my breasts, squeezing on my nipples.
What were they talking about me for? And what does she mean by "this time"?
As soon as they were done, they pushed me into the tub and had me stay in it for what felt like eternity.
Afterward, they wrapped me in a soft robe, real fabric, not scratchy or worn, but smooth and clean. My skin screamed at the sensation.
Then I was led, barefoot, through another corridor. Carpeted too. Candles in sconces. Marble statues.
A door opened and in it, I could see warmth.
Wine stood at the table, music playing faintly from somewhere I couldn’t see.
And there stood a man. Looking in his late twenties, a small grin on his face which he tried to hide but failed.
He sat there, shirtless. Slouched in a leather chair with a goblet in one hand, his other draped casually over the armrest.
His eyes flicked up to me and his smile widened.
He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me as the guards left the room. I stood, frozen. My legs were shaking and I didn’t know if it was fear or cold or both.
Then he stood, his voice breaking. "Strip."