SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

Anya appears confused for a moment. And then Jafari’s little fist connects with the edge of her jaw and she snaps out of it, blocking his next attempt.

I look over at Rainer and catch him laughing and shaking his head.

But what else can I do? Jafari could kick Anya’s ass if I let him loose. She should really be paired up with Ainsey if this were based on skill level. But Ainsey is with me, and anyway, she’s too damn short.

I leave Anya and Jafari to it, and then walk over to Ainsey, who is pouting and sitting on the floor, playing with her toes. I kick her with the tip of my foot and she scrambles to her feet as I kneel down with palms up.

She starts punching my hands in her pre-defined pattern of jab, jab, cross. Over and over again.

The day passes like that. Jafari puts Anya through her paces and I pretend that I’m teaching my tiny one how to fight. I send Anya back into the kitchen a couple hours before quitting time so she can get dinner ready, and then I make my kids run up and down the stairwell until they are ready to drop from exhaustion.

I like them tired at the end of the day. Makes them sleep through the night. And that means I can steal a few moments to myself. That’s the best thing about teaching the little ones. They like their sleep time.

After dinner, when everyone is settled on their mats, we all point to the moon and check off the day using the sign for ‘six.’

The rules for the first month are strict. The food is bland, there is no talking, there are no trips to the game room, and every day is a lesson in hard work.

But we are all about milestones here. And Anya reached one today.

So a few hours later, once I know everyone is asleep, I get up, walk over to Anya, tap her awake, and instruct her to follow me.

She does this without any objections and we end up in the kitchen. She watches me open a bottle of the Lectra, pour two shots into a single glass, and then she follows me down the stairwell to the landing just above the ocean.

We sit on the stairs, shoulders touching, and then I turn and offer her the glass.

She is glowing silver in this moonlight. Her skin has darkened over the weeks and in the sun, she is a golden brown. But right now, she looks like something out of a Nordic fairy tale. Her long blonde hair is wavy and wild, her skin smooth and pale as the shimmering moonlight reflecting off the water turns her into a mythological creature of the sea.

She looks at the glass of Lectra for a moment. Then her eyes dart up to mine.

Half, I sign to her. And she huffs, and nods. Then takes the cup from me, downing half.

I drink the other half. One shot each. It’s just enough, really. Just enough to give me a chill as it goes down, but then warm me back up once it settles in my stomach.

It’s just enough to erase the tension in my shoulders and allow me to forget.

I lean back, my elbows resting on the step behind us, then kick my legs out and sigh. Anya does the same and we just sit there. Looking out at the sea. Watching the shipping lane off in the distance.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve missed this.

We had a nice schedule going before the camp started. We were used to each other. At ease with each other. And even though it’s been almost a week and everything about our schedule has changed, I realize that what we had, didn’t changed.

When I turn to her, she’s already looking at me. And when I kiss her, her mouth is already open.

I know this is the Lectra. But I don’t care.

I kiss her back with force, angling my body towards her, then over her, until she’s practically lying back on the steps. And before I can think too hard about it, or talk myself out of it, I slip my hand between her legs.

Why now? I can read her mind. Why now, with all these people around us, when you haven’t touched me in weeks? Why now?

And the answer is because time is short. The answer is because she stood up to Maart. The answer is because I want to.

But the real answer is… because I like her. And I want her.

I know this is bad. I know this is using her. I know I will hurt her. And in the end, I will leave her.

But when she opens her legs, responding to—no, agreeing to my request—and I find her wet, I just don’t fucking care.

I slip a finger inside her and she lets out a long breath. But it’s not enough. I’m tired of her little offerings. I’m tired of her hidden sighs. I’m tired of her silence and I want to make her scream.

I pull her shirt up and over her head, then push her legs together and tug her shorts down.

Anya responds by going still and stiff. And I get angry. Because that’s not what this is.

Do you want to stop? I sign.

She shakes her head no.

Then what the fuck, Anya? Do you want to go back up?

She shakes her head again.

Then what is wrong?

She sucks in a deep, deep breath, but doesn’t answer me. Not with a shrug, not with a shake, not with a nod.

I pull away and lean back again, frustrated.

I get it. I do. The girl was a sex slave. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? And we’ve done it before. Twice.

I sign this to her. And when she doesn’t answer me, I take her hands in mine and start making signs for her.

I know you understand me. I know you can sign. I know you can talk. Tell me what’s wrong.

Her eyes