Hunt

twenty seven

it's an emotion that has never 
touched me before

"This is probably the most random thing I've ever done," I muttered as Yeeun turned me around in front of the mirror, a pin held delicately between her teeth. "Feels like I'm playing dress-up."

"This is a lot more difficult than a game of dress-up," Jennie said, watching me with dark eyes. Her hot pink nails tapped against her lower lip as she tilted her head, a bright contrast to the bloody shade of her lipstick. "Hold still."

"It's not easy," I said as Yeeun pulled me into a standing position again, removing the pin from between her lips and using it to pull up a strand of my hair. "Ow!"

"It's not that bad." Yeeun chuckled when I reached up to massage the spot where she'd just stuck the pin, and pulled my hand back down. "Don't ruin it."

"Better it gets ruined now." I brushed my fingers against my nape, feeling the tiny scar that ran along the base of my throat. A rare one, since it had nothing to do with crime. Twenty more minutes, at most, and I'd be as ready for the auction as a plucked chicken is ready for roasting. "I would rather not have some crazy murderer rip the pins out of my hair."

"Not if you kick his ass first."

"Not likely." I looked at my reflection uncomfortably, the way the dress cut into my sides, the gossamer-light material of the skirt. Something about wearing it made me feel weary, like my bones had been rubbing against stone, and were worn out at the ends like old machinery. "This dress isn't going to allow me to kick anyone's ass—except my own, and that requires too much gymnastics."

"Well, then." Yeeun shrugged. "Rip it off when you need to."

"And walk around in what?" I retorted. "My birthday suit?"

"Don't rip it," Jennie said in a warning tone, stepping forward and surveying me critically. "It's not yours to rip."

Lightly, I touched the neckline of the dress, which ran from a little below my shoulders. It felt wrong. Like I was exposed. Vulnerable. I pushed the thought out of my mind and clenched my jaw, imagining myself pulling my knife out of the thigh holster that was hidden under the skirt. Don't think about the girl. Don't think about the blond escort. Don't think about them.

Brave words, but futile. Every time I so much as glanced at the midnight blue of the dress, I thought of the streamers in the girl's hair, the glitter around her eyes. Would I see them again, if I walked into the place like a commodity instead of a human? Probably. What did that make me feel? I didn't want to know.

Human, human, human, I repeated the word like a mantra inside my head, and caved my shoulders so the dress would make me look more intimidating. It didn't work, though. I just looked even more delicate, like a breakable little thing with hunched shoulders and too much weight to bear.