‎THE DEAL

The return to the cabin was a blur of rain, pain, and humiliation.

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‎Kaelen kicked the front door open with a force that rattled the hinges, carrying me inside like a wet, muddy sack of flour. He marched straight to the fireplace, kicking the dying embers into a roar, then dumped me unceremoniously onto the leather sofa.

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‎I gasped as my broken ankle jarred against the cushions.

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‎"Stay," he barked.

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‎He stomped to the washbasin, grabbing a towel and a bottle of amber liquid—whiskey, or maybe disinfectant. He grabbed a roll of linen bandages from a shelf.

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‎He looked terrifying. He was still naked, his bronze skin slick with rain and smeared with mud. His hair hung in wet strands over his eyes, which were glowing with a residual, angry gold light.

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‎He knelt in front of me. He didn't ask; he grabbed my left foot.

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‎"This is going to hurt," he said flatly.

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‎"Wait—"

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‎He didn't wait. With a sickening crunch, he wrenched my ankle back into alignment.

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‎I screamed, arching off the sofa, white stars exploding behind my eyelids. The pain was nauseating, a hot poker driving up my leg.

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‎"Breathe," Kaelen commanded, holding my foot steady in his iron grip. He poured the alcohol over the swollen joint. It stung like fire. "If you faint, I’m leaving you on the floor."

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‎I gritted my teeth, tears leaking from my eyes. "You... you barbarian."

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‎"I'm the barbarian?" Kaelen scoffed. He began wrapping the linen tight around my ankle, his movements efficient and practiced. "You're the one who ran into a bear's den in a silk dress. You have zero survival instincts, Celeste. None."

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‎"I was trying to escape!" I snapped, wiping my face. "That’s a survival instinct!"

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‎"No, that’s suicide," he tied off the bandage with a sharp tug. He sat back on his heels, glaring at me. "Do you have any idea what is out there? Bears are the least of your problems. There are traps. Quick-mud. Rogue packs that make my men look like choir boys. If I hadn't heard your scream..."

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‎He trailed off, his jaw working. He looked away, staring into the fire. The thought of what could have happened seemed to rattle him more than he wanted to admit.

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‎"I can't stay here, Kaelen," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "I can't be a prisoner in this room. I’ll go insane."

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‎Kaelen looked back at me. The anger in his eyes cooled into something calculating.

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‎"You're right," he said slowly. "Keeping you locked up isn't working. It makes you desperate. And frankly, I don't have the manpower to guard your door twenty-four seven while Vexa tries to claw through it."

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‎He stood up, towering over me.

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‎"So, here is the deal."

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‎I looked up at him, wary. "What deal?"

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‎"You want out of this room? Fine. But in the Bone Yard, we don't have free riders. Everyone works. Even the children. Even the crippled."

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‎He pointed a finger at me. "You want freedom? You earn it. You work for your keep."

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‎"Work?" I blinked. "Doing what?"

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‎"Whatever needs doing," he said ruthlessly. "Cooking. Cleaning. Mending. If you prove you can be useful—if you prove you aren't just a spoiled princess waiting for daddy to save her—then you get the run of the camp. No locks. No guards." 

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‎"And if I refuse?"

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‎Kaelen crossed his arms. "Then you go back in that bedroom. I lock the door. And you stay there until I trade you or you rot. Your choice."

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‎It wasn't really a choice. The thought of staring at those four wooden walls for another day made my skin crawl. And worse—being locked away meant being helpless. If I was out in the camp, working... I could learn the layout. I could find a weakness. I could find a way to contact Mira.

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‎"I'll work," I said, lifting my chin.

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‎Kaelen raised an eyebrow. He looked skeptical. He looked at my soft hands, my ruined dress, my swollen ankle.

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‎"We'll see," he muttered.

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‎He walked to a chest in the corner and pulled out a bundle of clothes. He tossed them at me. They were rough—gray wool trousers and a thick flannel shirt.

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‎"Put these on. Burn the dress. It makes you look like a target."

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‎"Now?" I asked. "It's the middle of the night."

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‎"The kitchens start prep at 4:00 AM," Kaelen said, checking the window where the first hint of gray light was touching the sky. "You're late." 

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‎Walking on the twisted ankle was agony, even with the makeshift crutch Kaelen had carved for me from a branch.

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‎I hobbled across the muddy camp square, clutching the crutch, my breath misting in the cold morning air. The camp was already waking up. I saw men sharpening spears by the fire. I saw women carrying buckets of water from the river.

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‎They stopped to watch me pass. Their eyes were still hard, still suspicious. But they weren't throwing rocks this time. They were waiting to see if I would break.

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‎Kaelen led me to a large, open-sided structure near the center of the camp. Smoke billowed from three massive stone hearths. The smell of baking bread and roasting meat hit me, heavy, hearty, and real.

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‎"Olara!" Kaelen barked.

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‎An older woman emerged from the steam. She was short and stout, with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and arms that looked like they could wrestle a steer. She wore a stained apron and held a wooden spoon like a weapon.

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‎She looked at Kaelen, then at me. Her eyes narrowed.

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‎"What's this?" she asked, her voice raspy from years of inhaling smoke.

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‎"New recruit," Kaelen said. "She needs a job."

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‎Olara walked around me, inspecting me like I was a horse at an auction. She poked my arm. She looked at my bandaged ankle. She scoffed.

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‎"She's broken, Alpha. And she looks like a strong breeze would knock her over. What am I supposed to do with her? Have her peel grapes?"

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‎"She has hands," Kaelen said firmly. "Put her to work, Olara. No special treatment. If she doesn't work, she doesn't eat."

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‎He turned to me. His expression was unreadable. "Don't burn the place down, Princess."

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‎And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the fog.

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‎I was alone. With Olara. And a dozen other kitchen workers who had stopped chopping vegetables to stare at me.

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‎Olara sighed, a sound of deep, long-suffering exhaustion. She pointed her spoon at a mountain of dirty metal pots stacked in the corner. They were caked with grease and burnt stew.

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‎"You want to help?" she grunted. "Scrub. The sand is in the bucket. The water is in the trough. Don't stop until I can see my face in the metal."

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‎I looked at the mountain of pots. I looked at my manicured fingernails.

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‎Then, I looked at Olara. 

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‎"Yes, ma'am," I said.

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‎I hobbled over to the trough, dropped my crutch, and plunged my hands into the freezing, greasy water.

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‎The water bit into my skin. The grease coated my arms. It was disgusting. It was humiliating.

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‎But as I picked up the first pot and started to scrub, a strange feeling settled in my chest. It wasn't shame.

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‎It was determination.

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‎I am not a doll, I thought, grit scrubbing against steel. I am a survivor. And I will survive this.