Chapter 9

The journey to Sunning takes most of the night and all morning. Omar rides me through darkness, then dawn, then climbing sun. My legs burn. My thighs chafe where the harness strap grinds. The brass tag swings with every high-stepped stride, pulling at my pierced septum until the pain becomes just another constant sensation layered atop the pony fruit heat.

By the time Sunning’s wooden palisade comes into view, I’ve pissed myself twice more—once in the pre-dawn cold, once mid-morning when Omar wouldn’t stop despite my whimpering around the bit. The warm wetness running down my thighs has dried sticky and shameful.

The gate stands open for morning traffic. A handful of farmers with carts. Two women carrying baskets. And manning the gate itself—

Oh fuck. Oh no.

Tomas. Guard Tomas, who I had thrown in the drunk tank six months ago when he got handsy with one of my acquisitions before the sale was finalized. Tomas, who I’d dressed down in front of his captain, calling him an “undisciplined pig who couldn’t keep his cock in his pants.”