Chapter 190

Chapter 190
Citlali's POV

The food was good.

"Wait," I called out as she turned to leave. "What's your name?"

She paused, her back to me, but didn't turn around.

"Please," I tried again, my voice gentler. "I just want to know your name."

For a moment, I thought she might answer.

Then she walked away, her footsteps silent, leaving me alone with the lavish breakfast.

I looked at the food, my stomach churning.

Why would they feed prisoners like this?

Then the guard's words came back to me: "If she's going to bear children for His Highness..."

Understanding crashed over me like a wave of ice water.

They were fattening me up. Making sure I was healthy and well-fed.

Because they needed me in good condition. For breeding.

My hands shook as I picked up the bread, my stomach churning with revulsion even as hunger gnawed at me.

I forced myself to eat. I needed strength if I was going to escape.

But every bite tasted like ash, like swallowing my own fear and disgust.

As I ate, I watched the corridor through the bars.

Guards patrolled regularly, their routes predictable—every fifteen minutes or so.

Occasionally, women were called out to do cleaning work.

They moved like ghosts through the halls, silent and obedient, their eyes downcast.

Once, I saw a man in physician's robes enter one of the cells where a heavily pregnant woman lay.

He carried a bag of medical instruments, and I could hear him examining her, checking the baby's position.

Treating her like valuable livestock.

I counted the cells I could see from my position. At least twelve on this side of the corridor.

If there were the same number on the other side, that meant at least twenty-four women.

Twenty-four lives destroyed.

I searched every face that passed, desperate for a glimpse of Layla.

But I didn't see her.

Maybe she was in a different section. Maybe they kept the younger ones separate.

Or maybe—I couldn't let myself finish that thought.

The day passed slowly, marked only by the changing light from the lamps in the corridor.

I tried to rest, to conserve my strength, but sleep was impossible.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard those sounds again.

When evening came, dread settled over me like a heavy blanket.

Would tonight be the same? Would I have to endure those sounds again?

Would they come for me this time?

The guards arrived at my cell just as darkness fell.

This time they brought something new—a small leather pouch.

"Since you're still not learning," one of them said, opening the pouch to reveal silver powder, "we'll have to add some incentive."

They grabbed me, holding me down as I struggled.

They found my old wounds—the cuts from the silver net, the burns from the chains—and sprinkled the powder directly into them.

The pain was beyond description.

Like being burned alive from the inside out, like acid eating through my flesh.

I screamed. I couldn't help it.

The sound tore from my throat, raw and animal, echoing off the walls.

The guards smiled, satisfied.

"That's better. Let us hear your voice."

One of them leaned close, his breath hot against my ear.

"The Lords likes to hear women's voices. Likes to know they're feeling it."

He straightened up, looking down at me with cold amusement.

"You'll learn to use that voice properly. To beg nicely. To thank him for his attention."

They left me writhing on the floor, my body convulsing with agony.

The silver powder burned and burned, seeming to burrow deeper into my wounds with each passing second.

I bit down on my own arm to muffle my screams, tasting blood.

And then, as night deepened, those sounds began again.

Closer this time. The cell directly next to mine.

I heard everything with horrible clarity.

A woman's voice—young, maybe my age: "Please, my lord, I'll do anything you want, just please don't use the ropes tonight, my wrists are still bleeding from—"

A sharp slap cut her off.

"Did I ask for your opinion?"

"No, my lord, I'm sorry, I—"

"Hands above your head. Now."

The sound of rope being pulled tight. A whimper of pain.

"That's better. Now, let's see... I think tonight we'll try something new."

I pressed my hands over my ears, but it was useless.

I could still hear the woman's muffled cries, the man's satisfied grunts, the rhythmic creaking of the bed.

And worse, I could hear her trying to please him, her voice breaking as she said the things he wanted to hear.

"Yes, my lord... thank you, my lord... please, more..."

Words forced from her throat, words that made me want to vomit.

This was what they did here. They didn't just rape these women.

They broke them. Trained them to participate in their own violation.

Made them complicit in their own suffering.

At some point, I heard a door open very close to my cell.

Footsteps. A man's voice, cultured and refined: "Good evening. I trust you're feeling well?"

A woman's voice, carefully neutral: "Yes, my lord. Thank you for asking."

"Excellent. I've brought you a gift. A new dress. I thought the blue would complement your eyes."

"You're too kind, my lord."

"Not at all. Now, shall we?"

The sounds that followed were quieter than in other cells, almost gentle.

But I could still hear the woman's carefully controlled breathing, the way she timed her responses to match what he wanted.

This was a woman who had learned her role perfectly.

Who had survived by becoming exactly what they wanted her to be.

And somehow, that was the most horrifying thing of all.

Tears streamed down my face as I lay there, unable to escape the sounds, unable to help.

I thought of Layla, praying she was somewhere safe, somewhere she couldn't hear this.

I thought of Rowan, and the not-knowing threatened to drive me mad.

Was he dead? Alive? Captured? Free?

I would never know, trapped here behind silver bars, cut off from everything and everyone.

The night seemed endless, but eventually, dawn came.

The men left, their voices cheerful and satisfied.

The corridor fell silent except for soft weeping from various cells.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind numb with horror.

This was my future, I realized.

Unless I found a way to escape, this would be my life.

Night after night of listening to this suffering.

And eventually, when they decided I was "ready," experiencing it myself.

The thought made me want to die.

But I couldn't give up. Not while Layla was here somewhere, needing me.

Not while there was even the smallest chance of escape.

I had to survive. Had to stay strong.

No matter what it took.

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