Page 21 of Cage of Starlight
But he still has the scalpel. “You said my room’s at the end of the hall?”
“I did.”
“Good. I’ll find it myself. Thanks for nothing.”
“No.” Two quick steps. An extended arm stops Tory from advancing.
Turning, he bares his teeth at Vantaras, but the asshole’s impassive expression doesn’t even twitch. He’s clearly been taking lessons from the colonel.
“I’ll need you to hand it over.”
Tory’s fists clench—a mistake. He hisses as the scalpel’s blade sinks into a fingertip. “Hand what over?”
“Whatever it is you’re holding.”
Blood tickles a path between his fingers. Tory presses them tighter and forces out a surprised laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The plink of his blood on titanium-white tile betrays him.
Vantaras’ eyes follow the path of another drop—two, three—that make a trail as Tory shifts that side of his body away.
“Surrender it willingly, or I’ll take it by force.”
Anger and humiliation make a wreck of Tory’s gut. If his mom were here, she’d tell him to let it go. Maybe she’d be right. But Tory’s been beneath the heel of men like this all his life, and he’s had aperfectsmile for every one of them. He’s been so very, very agreeable.
“Why don’t you try then,Sena.” The words burn on their way out, equal parts thrill and adrenaline.
“If you insist.”
It happens too quickly to process, between the moment the red lights sink into darkness and when they blare bright again.
Darkness: a hand on his opposite shoulder makes him jerk away, exposing his left side.
Red light, making something cruel of Vantaras’ silhouette: he seizes Tory’s upper arm again in a manacle-tight grip and lifts it, snatching the handle from his fingers.
He releases Tory’s arm and retreats, white gloves immaculate, scalpel dangling from two fingers. With an elegant flick, he tucks the pointed edge into the holster at his left side, against the gun he used to shoot a fleeing rebel in the gut.
Lights out. In darkness, Vantaras says, “In future, you’ll call me by my rank.” They flare again. “We won’t speak of this further. Find your room.”
“If you really think—”
“Insubordination gets you hurt here. There’s enough trouble in a day; only fools make more.”
Tory nearly staggers at how wrong those words are on this officer’s lips. Howfamiliar.
Don’t make waves,his mother told him, and he took it as scripture. Now, Vantaras saysdon’t make trouble.
Why did he never realize it before? They’re both such pretty ways to saylie down and take it.Tory has practiced appeasement so long it’s his native tongue, and for what?
All these years, all that effort, and maybe he’s not in the labor camps but he’s still in a windowless box barely large enough tobreathe in. They have him, locked up and marked up and numbered and tagged, an animal for their use.
All at once, the red lights die and the brutal, blinding white comes back. Tory flings up a hand to block it, but Vantaras’ bitter sneer is seared on his eyes.
He never asked for this. Never asked his mom to free him, never asked to be able to heal, for Thatcher or Hasra or—whatever they called it . . . redirection. For this delicate rich boy who’s taken his freedomtwice. His mother begged Tory to keep his head down because she thought it might save him—thought it could have saved her when she was free. But it’s clearer now that he’s hearing those words on his enemy’s lips: Tory’s obedience would only be a favor to Vantaras, and he’s in no hurry to makeanythingeasy for this bastard.
Tory rasps a shattered-glass laugh and whips his wounded hand out to grab Vantaras’ glove. He leaves behind a slash of red, and he can’t push down the smile that warps his lips. He hopes the things are ruined, hopes they never wash clean.
“Enough,” he says.
