Page 64 of Scavenger's Oath
Then a stray thought crosses my mind. I actually know where a hairbrush is in the locker room.
But like fuck am I gonna comb her hairfor her. It’s pathetic that I’m even thinking about her. Let alone like she’s someone I need to take care of.
She’snotpart of this group.
I bring the shirt like I promised.
Clean and folded with clinical precision in my arms as I step into the holding room.
She’s sitting up on her bed, back to the wall, like she heard me coming. That instinct of hers—quiet, alert, always watching. Her eyes catch on the shirt in my hand almost immediately.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she says.
“I did,” I reply flatly. Things may have gone awry during my visit last week but I’m not letting that happen again.
Stepping up to the cell, I see a faint bite mark on her neck and light bruising on her jaw. Myles’s scent is unmistakable.
He’s been busy with his pet.
Jealousy hit hard when he first brought her here—a vile emotion and weak moment for me. But I have it under control now. Myles and I were never exclusive anyway. I just got used toour routine.
"Get up," I order, tossing the shirt through the bars. "You’re getting a shower."
Her brows dip a little.
“Hot water,” I add. “Well… warm, if the valves behave.”
Her nod is cautious, slow, like she’s waiting for the catch.
Smart girl.
“There’s no trade,” I say, even though we both know there’s always a trade. “Just figured you’ve been sponge-bathing long enough.”
That’s the game, isn’t it? Pretending this is about care, when all it is... is control. Control is safety. Control keeps people alive.
She stands to her feet. “Thank you.” Her soft voice floats to my ears as I move to the cell door, I unlock it and wrench it open.
I grunt in response, not wanting to indulge the way her gratitude makes me feel.
She steps out a moment later. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Still too fragile but standing straighter. Like she’s forgotten how to cower.
"Let’s go," I say, turning to lead the way.
We don’t talk as we walk. Just the steady rhythm of my boots down the corridor and the rushed pad of her feet keeping up. I stay a step ahead. An approach I use with everything in my life.
When we reach the locker room, I shove the heavy door open and motion her through first.
"Inside."
She hesitates a beat, then obeys.Good girl.
The showers are… what they are. One large, tiled room. Lockers on one wall, showers on the other, drain in the centre. Industrial pipes running along the ceiling with one light that still works.
No curtains. No doors. No privacy. Just bare bones, military style. Same setup we used to have on base. Efficient. Functional. Dehumanising.
"Soap's there," I say, pointing to the metal dish on the shelf.
She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes scanning the space like she’s mapping exits. Part of me is proud of her vigilance.
