All For You

Thirteen

Isla

I try not to scream, my body aching all over, sweating dots onto the cold concrete floor.

When I go down to do my twentieth pushup, I don't come back up. I lay on the cold floor, thankful for the cool, panting pathetically.

On a good day, I can do forty. But considering I was beaten black and blue for an hour straight not too long ago, I'll settle with half.

Almost half.

Whatever.

I should be getting out of here soon. They didn't kill me, for whatever reason, but it's been a week since those dicks came in and kicked me senseless.

They haven't come back again, and thank God for that. Honestly, I'm not even positive I am alive. Maybe this is the afterlife.

Maybe I'm in a dark version of hell.

Who fucking knows?

I haven't gotten very frequent meals, either. Once every two days, if I'm lucky, and a cup of water a day. Aren't they so generous?

I sigh and stay on the floor until my next meal comes, but thank fuck, it's not the meal man.

"Get out," the guard says, nodding his head down the hall and towards the stairs.

I take my time getting up, stretching my muscles painfully on my way out. I take my time on the stairs, but hurry back to my room as soon as I see the light of day.

It's fucking embarrassing coming out of isolation after so long. Not only do I stink, I look as bad as I smell. It's not exactly my idea of fun having to ignore the glares and looks of disgust as I walk by my lovely coworkers.

I sigh and get into the shower as soon as I get to my room and practically bolt the door shut.

The water stings, because it's boiling fucking hot, but I let it. It's different, somehow. Good different.

Plus, I've pretty much healed, for the most part. Just a huge purple bruise on my ribs, and a small one on my cheek, but I can cover both of them up fairly easy, and my busted lip will probably go unnoticed.

The only thing that matters is that I can move. That's all that counts. If I can take a step forward, I can take a shower and go make sure my family is still alive and well.

Fuck, even if I couldn't take a damn step, I'd still be going.

When I get out of the shower, a suited lady is waiting for me at my door, knocking incessantly like a fucking pest.

I yell at her to wait a minute and get dressed into sweats, because I plan on going straight to sleep as soon as I'm done with whatever this lady wants.

"Mr. Smith wants to see you, Sophie," she tells me, her expression blank. I groan and shove past her, making my way to the bastards office.

Why can't these assholes just let me fucking sleep?

"Take a seat," Mr. Smith tells me when I slam his office door open, gesturing to a couch facing his desk and chair. I slump down on it, crossing my arms. He gets straight to the point, like always. At least he's good at one thing. "We're changing your name to Lia Gomez, and after tonight's mission, you'll no longer be doing mission work."

"What?" I yell, sitting up straight. What the fuck does he mean?

"You're more risk than you're worth, Lia. Instead of doing missions with Killian, you'll be helping faction eight bring in more children for assassin training." He keeps his eyes dark, his mouth straight, his eyebrows relaxed.