Page 18 of Fury

“Not chicken noodle. Hate chicken noodle,” I mumbled.

A small smile curved her sexy mouth. I’d pleased her. “No, it’s tomato. I like tomato. Just open your mouth a tiny bit more so I can get the spoon in there.”

I parted my lips as far as they would go, my face screaming. She concentrated on getting the full spoon in my mouth.

Did she take care of all the prisoners like this? Fuck all the prisoners? Tend to their wounds? Was I just another idiot in a long line of prisoners? After I left would someone else fill my spot in her life?

“Soup okay?”

I nodded, and she fed me again. And again.

We didn’t have much time left. No time left. I wanted to listen to her speak. Hear her. Anything I could get.

I asked, “Why do you like tomato soup?”

“When I was a kid I used to make this soup from this can every Saturday. I’d heat up the soup, and my grandma would make the grilled cheese sandwiches.” Her face flushed.

Imagining her as a little girl, an innocent, laughing child sharing a meal with her daddy, made my chest pinch together.

Look where she ended up.

“When were you going to tell me about you being Med’s old lady?”

She didn’t answer.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“How long you been here?”

“Almost four years.”

“Med’s around fifty or so, isn’t he?”

“Fifty-two.”

“He likes to collect women, huh?”

“He likes to collect a lot of things,” she replied. “He wanted to keep you, actually. But he knew he had to give you back otherwise there’d be a huge war.” Her thumb lightly brushed the edge of my jaw, and a shiver raced over me. “Now he left his mark on you. Made you his for everyone to see.”

“I’m not anybody’s. Nobody owns me.”

“I’m sorry about what I did.”

“What? What did you do?”

“Getting you off while they—”

“He made you do it. He makes you do lots of shit, huh?”

“Yeah, but not like last night.”

We stared at each other. She didn’t have to explain or go into any other sure to be fucked up details. It was in the dull steadiness of her gaze. Unspeakable things, humiliating things.

“He doesn’t own me inside, though, and he knows it. He used to be really possessive of me, but that’s changed lately. Before, he never would’ve suggested I bring you food or have any contact with a prisoner. I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t know what it could be.”

“He’s crazy. It’s got nothing to do with you. You can see that, right?”

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