The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [59]
“Pretty girl like you.” He stands, reaching for my face. His chest rams the bowl of soup I’m clutching and it spills down his shirt.
I jump away, tensing as a sick feeling lurches into my stomach. I can see the rage boil inside the man as it climbs to his face in a red haze. “You bitch.” He holds up a hand, knuckles angled toward my cheek. I flinch, recoiling into a ball, waiting for the blow and ready to roll away from it to lessen the impact. My own fingers clench into fists, but I know better than to strike and provoke the obviously stronger man.
All around us men stand, chair legs scraping across the concrete floor. None of them says anything or moves to step in.
“What’s going on?” a voice bellows. From the corner of my eye I see the legs of a tall man striding into the room. When he comes into full view I recognize Ox. Relief teases the edge of my agitation. I start to relax my tensed muscles, letting out a long-held breath.
Ox looks at me and then at the man with his fist raised to strike. “Is there a reason you’re about to hit this girl?” he asks.
The man doesn’t lower his hand. “She spilled soup on me,” he says, shifting so that Ox can see the stain.
Ox’s eyes narrow. “Was it hot—you get burned?” he asks.
The man shakes his head no.
Ox shrugs. “If you’re gonna hit her, then hit her. We’ve got work to do.” Then he turns and walks from the room.
My heart freezes, my mouth open in shock. He was supposed to help me! Astonishment knots in my stomach as the man turns to me, leering. I start backing away, bitter-tasting apologies stumbling from my lips, but this only makes the man’s leer grow.
My back hits another table and I push against it. Its legs groan and squeak as it slides over the floor, and still the man follows me—it seems as if he’s reveling in my fear. I hold my arms up to block him but he forces them away until I’m kneeling, curled over myself, trying to make the most vulnerable areas of my body as tiny a target as possible.
“Next time a man asks you to join him, I suggest you respect that,” he says. And then he brings his hand down, sharp and furious, across the right side of my face. Pain explodes, blasting through my skull, and I bite back a grunt as I throw my hands over my head to protect myself against another blow. I want to spring up, dig my nails into his eyes, but I force myself to stay coiled on the floor instead.
The Recruiter laughs and kicks the now-empty soup bowl I’d been carrying at me, then he calls to his friends and they all swagger from the room, leaving me huddled in the corner.
For a long time I stay there trying to catch my breath, which comes in wheezes and hiccups. Over and over again I replay the entire episode, trying to figure out how I lost control of it so fast. I curse myself that I wasn’t stronger or somehow smart enough to manipulate the situation toward a better outcome.
Ox could have stepped in and stopped it but he didn’t, and I realize he was telling the truth when he said he’d always side with his men and that it’s my job to keep clear of trouble. When I’d told Elias that I knew how to take care of myself, I believed it. I’ve been taking care of myself alone for years—knowing to avoid the Recruiters and their cold cruelty. But I’m not sure I know how to do that anymore. Not in the Sanctuary.
Sick to my stomach, I find a rag to sop up the spilled soup and I try to eat a few bites of bread, knowing I need something in my system but choking on every piece that I force down my throat.
Finally, I slip from the room, glancing around each corner before shuffling down the hallways, staying pressed against the wall as if it could protect me.
I’ve never felt more cold and alone and tired. Hopelessness spirals through me, draining me of energy. Helpless tears cloud my eyes, but the rage that usually accompanies such feelings never comes. I’m used to anger—used to using it to fill me with fight to face another day or week or month. Yet there’s nothing.
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