Prisoner

Chapter Eight

"How am I supposed to go for a fucking walk if I can barely stand up?" I snapped at Ryk, who had the patient smile of a saint.

"That's why you keep getting up and keep walking, to build up your strength. You want to go out there and kill the guy who hurt you, correct? This is the best beginning to that," he informed, making me roll my eyes. I rose to my feet, my legs protesting for a moment before the aches settled back down. It was weird, because most of the pain was in my hips and thighs. A little bit in the ankles, but mostly my hips.

"Let's get you dressed in something more appropriate," Ryk added, making me scowl and look down at the oversized pajama pants and baggy hoodie.

"What's wrong with the way I dress?" I demanded.

"Nothing. Just want you to get more accustomed to public clothing."

"This is what I would wear in public."

"How unfortunate," Ryk commented, making me curl my lip, but he ignored me as he led the way out of the lounge. I reluctantly followed, because this fucker could, and has, scooped me right off my feet to take me to his designated location and I rather carry my own ass than have him princess-style me everywhere.

We got back to my room where Ryk opened up the closet.

Now that was a kicker.

The closet was completely empty when I first arrived here. Absolutely nothing, not even a single sock. Now, every rack was full of clothing hanging from velvet hangers, every drawer was neatly organized with folded undies, socks, and some other shit I'd never seen before in my life that apparently counted as clothing. According to Ryk, some guy named Akin, who turned out to be Seven's dad, had bought a fuck ton of clothes for me and had Ryk load up the closet.

Which was weird.

I'd never met this Akin guy before in my fucking life. Who did he think he was buying clothes for me?

But Ryk said I was still too weak and fragile to go out into public at the moment, so delivery was the best choice.

Not that that Akin guy had bad choices. He chose some pretty nice clothes and none of it was flowery or colorful or tight or anything.

I ended up settling for some kind of short shirt and baggy jeans and a pair of new sneakers that Ryk said would be perfect for me getting back into walking around on my own.

Whatever.

I threw everything on and followed Ryk downstairs, which was a whole other fucking round of struggling considering I had a lot of issue putting weight down on my feet still. I teetered and tottered down the stairs, hanging on for dear life to the railing.

"This is stupid," I snapped at Ryk as we finally made it to the bottom, "How the fuck am I supposed to get better when I can't get down the damn stairs?"

"Patience," Ryk told me gently, "It'll take time before you're able to do normal things."

"If I can't do fucking normal things, how am I supposed to fucking kill people?"

"Okay, by people, I'm going to assume you're just talking about your torturer."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, asshole."

"You know, you can also start working on that mouth of yours."

"Why do people keep saying there's something wrong with my mouth?" I demanded, but Ryk ignored me as we made our way to the front entrance of the massive palace. The main lobby was huge, but not gaudy like I was expecting. Definitely the center of the Richy Richville here, but not nearly as ugly as, say, my fucking room. All shiny marble floors, gold and black columns that climbed to the towering ceiling, thickly padded waiting chairs, and a huge round lobby desk.