Page 4 of Dragon Flames
She must have been a schoolmarm in her past life. Her hair is scraped back from her face in a severe bun, her clothes taken right out of the Victorian era, the unflattering black dress laced up so tight under her chin that it looks like it’s trying to strangle her.
When her eyes lock on me, a pucker of distaste twists her face, but I’m not intimidated. Based on the number of wrinkles on her face, I doubt she can manage any other expression without her face cracking.
“Come here, girl. Let me get a look at you.” She beckons to me with an impatient hand, completely unafraid of being in a room alone with me.
I’ll give it to the old broad—she has quite a set of brass balls on her.
After five minutes of being circled, accompanied by a dozen harrumphs and muttered words, the old crone comes to a stop in front of me. “I guess you’ll have to do. It’s not like we have time to do anything else. Your posture isn’t too horrible. We can work with the unfortunate shade of hair and cut out the tangled, matted knots. You’re passing pretty for the criminal sort. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be…passable.”
More amused than intimated, I lift my brows and smirk down at the condescending old biddy. “Passable?”
The old hag has enough steel in her spine that she doesn’t wilt under my stare, just clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Yes, though we won’t have much time if we want to have you ready for your debutante showing. If you’re lucky, one of those upstanding men will be foolish enough to part with their money and take ownership of your poor, wretched soul. May the gods have mercy on his soul.”
Chapter Two
FELICIA
My first reaction is to laugh at the old biddy.
The sound is joyful and echoes back at me from the harsh white cement walls of the visitor room. When I realize she isn’t joking, I almost choke on my own spit and laugh even harder.
My laughter is interrupted when the old creature lifts her hand to smack me across the face. I lunge closer, stopping just inches from her face, my laughter gone as I snarl, “Try it. I fucking dare you.”
If anyone ever lays a hand on me, I always hit back twice as hard.
The crone’s hard, calculating blue eyes narrow, then she huffs and lowers her arm. I straighten slowly, chin up as I turn away to pound on the door behind me. I don’t doubt that I’ll pay for my defiance later, but I don’t give a fuck.
To my surprise, instead of guards, the room floods with a squad of women carrying boxes of fabrics and whatnot.
I almost take a step back in retreat.
The only thing that stops me is the condescending, vindictive smirk on the old crone’s face.
Then it hits me like a kick to the lady bits—this is really happening.
Part of me is shocked, and I want to scurry back to my predictable hole in the ground.
One thing stops me.
Hope.
I haven’t experienced hope in such a long time that I almost don’t recognize it.
It weaves through my heart, the sensation so painful that I nearly keel over when ribbons of fire carve blisters along my stomach.
Not even during my first night in this place have I ever imagined I would be able to escape, much less simply walk out the front doors.
No one survives Dante’s Penitentiary.
Ever.
Oh, I know this is a trap of some sort.
That this will simply be a move from one hellish place to another.
But even staring at my own doom, I can’t resist taking a chance—if only for the opportunity to die under the open sky.
I nod to the old biddy.
