The Wolf with the Iron Jaw (Elysium #1)

Chapter Three

 Shortly after having her new name bestowed upon her, Trinket fell into a fitful sleep. Nightmares of Elysium plagued her. Half-dead girls scrubbed the floors of tiny rooms with filthy mattresses. A large, ape-like man leered over her while a woman with smeared lipstick wrapped her fat fingers around her wrist and dragged her down a long hallway.

Then a green door.

Screams echoed off the walls.

She tried to get away, to make another impossible escape. But she was powerless against the merciless woman as she pulled her through the green door.

A room that smelled of chemicals. A mustachioed doctor mixing drugs. A metal table with leather straps.

And a jar sparking with electricity.

She bolted upright with a gasp just as the vicious current began to course through her bones. Struggling to regain her breath, she clutched her chest and squeezed her eyes shut.

It wasn't real. This wasn't Elysium. She'd escaped. She'd made it out.

No one escapes Elysium.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open and looked about the room, taking in every detail to ground herself back in reality. The wallpaper. The crackling fire. The fine and eclectic decor.

She had escaped, no matter what the voices said.

Letting out a long breath, she rubbed her arms against the odd chill in her bones and winced at the ache in her muscles. She felt as though she'd been run over by a hansom cab. Was it because of the wolf bite? Or perhaps the hours spent running from Elysium? Where had she, in fact, ended up? Amidst her reverie of finally being free from that hell, she hadn't bothered to investigate. And by the time her elation had faded, all she cared about was dying.

Right. Dying. Was that still her plan? Did she still want to end her life? Or was there another option?

Was there now hope?

"Good morning, Miss Trinket."

She was pulled away from her dilemma as Booker entered the room with a silver tray. He placed it on the table and leaned against the settee. "How are we today?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Your leg feels fine?"

She nodded.

He smiled. "You're not a woman of many words, are you?"

"I find that speaking too much or too often can get one into trouble."

He nodded in understanding. "I can't disagree with that. Prudence is a most admirable quality. Anyhow, I need to check your wound for infection and change the dressing, if you don't mind. Please, help yourself to some breakfast while I fetch my things."

She watched as he left the room, still not sure if she could trust him. He was a doctor, after all. Once he was gone, her gaze traveled to the tray. There were several pieces of burnt toast slathered in butter as well as a lovely porcelain teacup with whimsically painted flowers and vines growing around the rim.

Her stomach churned at the mere thought of eating. But it'd been days since her last meal—if she could call the gruel in Elysium a meal. So, picking up a piece of toast, she forced herself to take a bite.

It was like sinking her teeth into a dry sponge made of charcoal. How had he burnt it all the way through without starting a fire?

She chewed slowly, hoping that with enough mastication it might be a little less nauseating going down. Swallowing was difficult, the dry, blackened bits getting stuck in her throat.