He hates The Trade.

He talks around a chewy piece of meat. “I tried to cut the baby free so I could put it on salt for later, but the woman’s skin was like hide. I’m part Xin De, got some of the undesirable mutilations, but I don’t have skin like that…” Then he smiles at me, and my stomach turns. I roll my lips together to mask the revulsion I feel. “Not like you,” he adds. “I’ll go into you like a knife into that baby that hung from her. You’re soft. Your skin is thin. They made you so fragile and made themselves so indestructible. It’s no wonder the Trade has been trying to backpedal this fucking Gene Age disaster. Mix us. Blend Common and Xin De. So tell me, little Silk Girl, tell me all the tales of King Rome. Your saviour.”

I know we are sheltered in the Silk Aviary, but Silk Girls are well read, so I don’t allow him to frighten me.

Instead of detesting him for his vulgar story, I stare at this young man, unable to overlook the despair hidden beneath his layers of resentment. What must he have seen and done in his young life? Would I be any different if I had walked in his shoes? I hope I would still be decent even as I fought to survive.

It seems fruitless, but time is my friend, so I humour his request while I consider what to do.

“King Rome has a giant eagle named Odio,” I begin, playing along. “He is as big as I am. Wings twice the span of my arms outstretched. They say he flies into each battle first and rips the head of the opposing leader right off his shoulders with his talons. Carries the head to King Rome and places it in his hands to symbolise the beginning of each battle.”

The man leans forward onto his knees, murky brown eyes narrowing. He is dirty, yes, but youthful in a way that saddens me. “You’re not what I expected from a Silk Girl. I’ve jerked off to the idea of the perfect little breeding girls you are. Pure. Unopened by a man. Adore, pleasure, provide, am I right? Nothing in your pretty heads except that.” He hums in thought. “But you’re… talking about beheadings, sitting there all stiff and alert, like you’re going to try to take us all on. Is that it, little girl? You’re not even that squeamish. Your friend couldn’t stand the sight or smell, but you…” He studies me harder. “What are you?”

“I’m different.”

“How different?” he poses, a challenge skittering along each syllable. “How different are you, little girl?”

“I’m just like you. Surviving.” I look at his leader—at least I think he is— and remember the way he belittled him. He snores on his mattress. Quickly returning my gaze, I say, “With people ordering me around. Like the Wardeness. Those who think they know better than me. Or are smarter. Prettier”—I flash a look at Iris— “I’m just trying to survive in The Cradle. It’s made for them, not us.”

Fuck. I feel sick. I want Meaningful Purpose as much as any Trade citizen, and my words are profane.

We are staring at each other, and I feign intimacy, push it into the length and depth of our eye contact, using every inch of strength to not recoil or grimace.

His eyes drops to my throat.

I swallow as he leers, dipping his heated gaze lower to my chest and then my lap, where his vile thoughts are almost tangible fingers removing my clothes.

“Her red hair distracted me,” he offers, as if I really care, as if I’m jealous he chose her first. “You’re by far the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Ever.”

I blink at him. “Thank you. You’ve been surviving for a long time. Since you were ten?” I steady my breath, stay calm. I’m not afraid. “How old are you now? Have you got a House Girl?” I know the answer, but I need him to say it, for the conversation to continue as I plan.

He finishes the meat in his hand. “Twenty-two, I think. It’s hard to tell when the sun decides not to shine and the moon sleeps for too long. But I believe I’m twenty-two.”

“And girls?”

“Women don’t survive in this lifestyle. No. They don’t live long enough for me to keep.”

I stare straight into his eyes. “I could. I would.”

“You think?” Hesitant, he stares at the other men stirring on their mattresses. “You want to survive with me?”

I hold my panic inside.

What am I doing?

With his blade in his hand, he stands up and crosses the flaming barrel to get to me. He reaches down for my wrist, and I try not to flinch. He gazes at The Silk Girl Sigil in disdain, growling, “You want this thing on you? A womb. That is all you are to them. A womb.”

“I had no choice.”

“Prove it.”

I look at the drain.

Where does it lead…

They’ll be looking for us. Near the broken van? Near the mill? When we are announced missing, will the Mothers tell them of our secret visit? Will they track the broken glass? Will they find evidence? Will it be too late? There’ll be little pieces of me missing, digested and then waste in that drain.

The drains are manned by Trade workers.

“I’ll cut it off for you.”

His words land a hard blow. “Pardon?” My voice strains with the thought of removing his mark. No. No, I can’t. I won’t. Will he eat it?

He sneers. “So, you’re a liar, then?”

I panic. “No. You just have to prove you don’t think of me as live meat and dispose of it. Do not eat it. Do not eat me. Put it down the drain or,” I swallow, “something.”

A smile moves across his lips. “When Shank told me our Snakes saw a Trade van on the road, I thought he was crazy. Trade vans don’t travel ‘ere.”

My pulse hammers. “What’s a snake?”

“Men that live in the desert for weeks—scouts. They rotate the sand around our Ruins. Our territories. Tell us what’s happening on the roads. They told us about you. Shank said to blow out the tyres, and I thought he was out of his fucking mind. Not a Trade vehicle. Askin’ for trouble.”

“Shank isn’t very smart. We could have had more Guards,” I mutter, keeping soft eye contact. He likes it. The way I am looking at him.

“Worth it; I have you now.”

“Lucky, sure, but not smart,” I confirm.

He sits beside me. I can see the bulge between his legs bunch upward. Yep, he likes my attention a lot.

He pulls my wrist to his lap, his dirty fingers and split nails curling around to hold tight. Drawing the knife up, I look at the rust and blood painting the shiny surface. I force bile back down my throat.

“Don’t eat it,” I say, head heavy.

“You’re nothing like I expected.”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Come with me.” He is suddenly dragging me into the shadows, away from the others. I cannot breathe.

I try not to panic. A girl who likes him wouldn’t panic over being alone in the dark with him.

“You want to be mine?” he asks. “I’ll keep you.” I can smell the death on him, his unclean flesh and putrid breath rolling down my skin.

His hands come up to my chest, my body jerking when they both paw softly at my breasts.

“Small. They are small.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I like them.” He opens my cloak to expose my dress. It’s a dusty lilac colour, the king’s hue, but he cannot see any colours in the dark. “I’ve never been with a girl who wanted it before or was alive.”

Shit. My throat burns with bile.

Even as I try to remain calm, my body shakes violently. I’ve never been touched by a man before. My hands won’t move, but I think I am supposed to do something.

To touch him.

All I can do is steel my spine and let him fondle, but when his breathing becomes rough and his hands too firm, I blurt out, “I’ve never been with a man.”

I hope that he will slow down, but his hands continue to work on removing my dress; I block out the feeling. Bare, rough fingers slide along my skin; I concentrate on breathing.

Disgusting lips move to mine, meet mine. A tongue pushes in, and I twist my cringe of disgust into a moan of false enjoyment. But when the hard length between his legs presses against me, I stumble backward and hit a wall.