Chapter 4 The General's coat

“Don’t ask me questions. You should be afraid of him too,” Chloe snapped. “Avoid the general whenever you can. He is a powerful man—too much power for one man to carry.” She warned, then added, “What on earth happened to your hand?” she asked.

I pulled my hand out of her grip. “It’s fine. I promise. You’ll be the first I tell if it begins to hurt or swell.”

Don’t think Chloe had any special preference for me—she cared for all her girls. “You’ll avoid water for now. I’ll put you in the supply team.”

I hated supply. Lisa ran it, and unlike Chloe, Lisa wasn’t nice.

“Get your lazy ass off the floor and get to work,” she’d scream to wake us in the morning. The supply team did all sorts of ugly work. We didn’t step on the battlefield, but we came very close. We carried water and food for the soldiers; we overheard a lot. The battle was almost over. We had won. I felt no remorse for my former tribe. I only wondered how Eva was doing.

It was in the supply team that I noticed how different I was from the other girls. My skin was paler; apart from my ugly hand, I was flawless. They looked at me the way Louise sometimes did—like they wanted to tear me apart but knew they couldn’t.

Except that Lisa could. “Take this to the men in the base,” she ordered, handing me a light basket.

“It’s late,” I complained. We didn’t leave camp when it was so late.

“These men fight for the country, for the tribe and pack. The least you can do is give them treats irrespective of how late,” she snapped.

It was a good deed, but strange—Lisa was not one for good deeds. I nodded and carried the basket.

The path to the base was dark, but the men's laughter rang through the air. I smelled wine before I saw them. They were drunk even before I reached the tents.

“A little late-night snack for our brave soldiers,” I said cheerfully, offering the basket. There were eight of them; I could see six clearly and guessed two more were nearby.

One of them eyed me from hair to toe. A chill ran down my spine. I dropped the basket and turned hurriedly, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“Where are you going?” The man who had held me rose behind me, his hands pinning me so hard it hurt.

“I dropped the basket. Enjoy your snack,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He laughed, breath reeking of alcohol. He kicked the basket; a bunch of bananas spilled out—it had been practically empty. “You’re our late-night snack, pretty.”

I might be naïve about many things, but I knew rape. I’d heard the screams when the captain often forced himself on girls, and I’d die before I let myself be subject to that.

“Let go of me,” I said quietly. My voice was low, but it didn’t betray my fear.

The man laughed again. “Yes, milady.” Instead of letting me go, he ripped my shirt.

They laughed; someone moved behind me and now there were seven of them.

I couldn’t fight them—I wouldn’t win—but I’d die trying. I tried to run; more of my dress tore.

The tube that held my breast slipped, exposing my cleavage. The men began to pass me around, each tearing at my clothing before passing me on.

Fighting was useless; my strength didn’t match theirs. My clothes were rags when one finally grabbed me and pulled me close.

I closed my eyes, expecting the worst. If he tried to remove more clothing, maybe I could grab a knife from his pocket and threaten him. It might not work, but I was willing to try. Before he could do anything, he cried out in pain and fell to his knees.

I didn’t know what had happened, but the other men took several steps back.

I looked up and met a pair of blue eyes—eyes full of anger.

“The next time something like this happens in my base, I’ll cut your hands off. Both of them. I’ll make you live and watch yourself writhe in pain with the knowledge that you are useless to yourself, this army, and your family,” he said through clenched teeth.

He looked like he was fighting to control his rage, or maybe he didn’t want to look at me in this state. I felt tainted.

My clothes were torn into tiny bits; I couldn’t pull them together. General Luther Lion took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. The coat swallowed me—too big, heavy, sweeping the ground as we walked.

“Follow me,” he commanded. His lip was tight and his voice still angry.

I obeyed, struggling to keep up.

We passed his tent and I realized he was taking me to Chloe. Someone met us at the door.

“General!” the man blurted, shocked to see me wearing the General’s coat.

“Where is Chloe?” General Luther asked. He didn’t explain.

“How did you know she’s sick? We’ve sent for the physician—there’s nothing more we can do but wait,” the man answered.

My eyes widened. A reflex thought pushed through my mind: these people ha

d their own ways of healing. It was slow—but it would save Chloe. Right?