Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Ugh. I shut the door to the clinic once more and try not to think about those jerks.
I'm not entirely surprised when no one comes to the clinic this day. I wouldn't, either.
The day after the soldiers show up at my door, there's no scheduled dragon attack again. I dare to peek out my window, lifting the metal shutter, and I notice others are doing the same. There's wonder and relief on their faces, and I know we're all thinking the same thing. Did Azar really chase the wild dragons away? Are the ones sitting on the wall his tamed pets?
Despite the presence of the soldiers at my doorstep, my clinic gets a few visitors. There's the usual check-ins from the women that work at the whorehouse near the barracks, looking for birth control, and I get a few others. One is a pregnant woman wanting to hear her baby's heartbeat, and another is a man that cut his finger while repairing his roof.
Everyone speaks of Azar in glowing terms. That he really is here to protect the people of the fort. That he's here to “save” us.
I don't correct them. Let them think whatever helps them sleep at night.
I'm just about to shut my doors for the day, tidying up the clinic, when one of the guards pushes in a grocery cart full of jars and boxes. I jump to my feet, frowning. "What's this?"
"A present from Lord Azar to his consort," the smirky militia guard (the same one from yesterday) tells me. "He wants to make sure you're eating well." He takes the lid off of one box and shows a variety of fresh pastries and a loaf of cornbread, then sets them on the nearest table without asking. He picks up a weathered-looking thermos and holds it out to me. "Soup of the day."
I ignore the watering of my mouth and draw myself up, tall as I can. "I didn't ask for handouts. My customers pay me enough to get by."
They don't, actually. I ask them to pay what they can, and most can't. I live off of the rare patron that brings in a dead deer and makes jerky out of it, or the things that I manage to knit. I'm always hungry, and god, this food looks and smells amazing. But if I take it, what message does that send? So I carefully close the plastic box full of bread (how the hell did he even get bread?) and hold it back out to the guard. "You can take this all away. I don't want it."
"Our orders are to leave it, Lady Melina."
Lady Melina? My eyebrows go up. Am I the “lady” to his “lord” even though I've told the asshole to get lost? "I don't want it," I say again, moving past him and returning the food to the shopping cart he wheeled in. "You can take it all back. Those are your lady's orders."
"We only answer to Lord Azar, I'm afraid." He ignores the cart and shuts the door after him, leaving me with the food and a simmering temper.
My jaw clenches and I glare at the food for all of an hour before I break down and eat two of the pastries. They're dry, and the flour is probably as old as the hills, but it tastes like food from Before. A wave of nostalgia and depression hits me and I end up eating three pastries before closing the box again. I don't know what to do. I can say I'm not Azar's consort until I'm blue in the face, but if Azar says I am, what choice do I have? I'm a woman—I know men are always the ones that hold all the power. They might have claimed we were equal in the Before, but in a dragon-ruled society, all of that has gone out the window.
It feels as if I'm betraying my sex, even as I eat the abandoned food. I know this is just the first of it. I know he's not going to let me ignore him forever, and I still don't know how I'm going to be able to get out of this. It's been a long time since I've had to use my body to survive, and I'm not looking forward to losing control of my bodily autonomy again.
There aren’t a lot of options for a woman alone in the After.
I shove another stale-tasting roll into my mouth and try not to think about what Azar wants from his unwilling “consort.”
Chapter
Two
MELINA
I'm not surprised when a box of jewelry shows up the next day, along with a baby-faced soldier in a fresh uniform. The militia seems to be winning over people far quicker with Azar at the helm in the last few days than it did in the entire five-year span of the last mayor, which is alarming. It's easy to turn away the jewelry, though. There's no point in any of it. It's pretty, yes. The necklaces and rings and bracelets sparkle in the sunlight and I'm sure they'd all look stunning with an evening dress. In an apocalypse, though? It just gets in the way. It's not even useful as currency. No one wants a ruby ring when there's no toilet paper. No one needs a diamond-encrusted tiara when your “best” shoes are held together with masking tape. If you need goods? You'd better have something to trade. Batteries with juice left in them are important. Food is important. Bullets and guns are important.