Page 15 of Hell Fae Captive
Hadn’t there been a library?
Ajax hadn’t shown me the interior, just the exterior, before continuing on our tour—a tour that he’d implied was uncommon for him to give a candidate.
Which made me wonder why he’d provided one for me.
Because I was the hardest to catch? Another “consolation” prize like he’d claimed the food and other comforts were?
It definitely wasn’t because he liked me or wished to provide me with any favors.
A feeling that was absolutely fucking mutual.
Thewhysof the situation also didn’t matter; only my survival did.
Hell Fae Rule #1: Don’t Die.
My father had drilled that rule, along with several others, into my head as a child.
They were simple yet effective.
And I suspected I would be needing to recall several of those infamous Hell Fae rules now to survive my current predicament.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, noting that it was almost noon. The papers weren’t providing me with any useful details. So maybe I could use the time to snoop around or find the library.
Maybe both.
I stood and started toward my room, muttering, “Dress code,” under my breath.
Rules. Rules. And more rules.
Perhapsthatwas the result of my father’s obsession as a child.
I plucked at the spaghetti strap top I’d worn to the party I’d been attending before rudely being yanked into Hell. The thin shirt was great for showing off cleavage, but not so much for blending in.
While I found the idea of a dress code ridiculous, I didn’t want to risk being stopped and reprimanded before even reaching the library.
I opened my wardrobe.
Rows of outfits hung inside, paired with a small dresser filled with more shirts.
“Do I even want to know how they know my shirt and pant sizes?” I wondered aloud. “And where are the underwear and bras?”
I checked every drawer, then went to the nightstands framing the bed.
Nothing.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I walked back into the other room to review the dress code section again.
And sure enough, there was a line in small print about undergarments not being permitted.
“Fuck that,” I snapped, deciding to at least keep my bra on.
But the jeans and panties really did need to be swapped out, so I marched back into my room and traded them for the black pants.
“Of course the shirts are all white and thin.” I was honestly surprised they weren’t making us prance around in lingerie.
Rolling my eyes, I switched my tank top for the T-shirt.
At least it was a bland uniform. Maybe the proverbial target on my back wouldn’t be as big if I looked like everyone else.
