56. Ryker
RYKER
He glanced back at me. “Demonstrating.”
Seconds later, the man returned holding something small in his palm. A USB drive. Plain.
He crossed the room and handed it to the Pied Piper, then stepped back. He held the drive between two fingers. “Do you know what this is?”
“A flash drive,” I said, voice tight.
He arched a brow. “It contains a list of words.”
I stared. “A list.”
“A list,” he repeated. “It updates daily.”
My stomach dropped. “Tripwire words.”
He smiled. “Good.”
He slipped the drive into his pocket as if it was nothing.
“Now,” he said, “do you understand what you’re up against?”
I pulled against the rope again, furious. “You’re telling me you can watch anyone who types in the right words.”
He shrugged. “Anyone who matters.”
The casual arrogance hit like a slap.
I forced my breathing slow. “And this is why you beat me.”
He studied me. “Part of it.”
I stared at him, waiting.
He walked closer again, his voice dropping slightly, conversational, intimate in the worst way. “You were beaten because you became … inconvenient. You were asking questions about a story that wasn’t yours.”
“My story wasn’t mine?” I snapped.
He smiled faintly. “You don’t even know what your story is.”
A chill slid through me, sharp and personal.
He watched it happen. He enjoyed it.
I swallowed hard. “Then tell me.”
His brow arched, slightly. “You were made.”
The word hit hard.
“Don’t. Don’t talk about me like I’m a goddamn product.”
He didn’t blink. “But you are.”
My jaw locked so tight it hurt.
He stepped to the side, circling the chair slightly, like he wanted to see me from different angles.
“You have a certain composition,” he said. “Pain tolerance. Adaptability. Violence that’s easy to point.”
I yanked against the rope again, the fibers biting into my skin. “Keep talking and see what happens when I’m not tied down.”
He smiled, unbothered. “I’ve seen what happens when you’re not tied down.” The Pied Piper continued. “When you were eleven, you didn’t end up in that chair by accident.”
My pulse hammered. “I didn’t choose it.”
“No,” he agreed. “You were selected.”
I stared at him. “By who?”
He didn’t answer directly. He didn’t have to. His entire presence was the answer.
“You were selected because you were already showing signs,” he said. “Anger. Dissociation. A willingness to do what you needed to do to survive. Mostly, your IQ. You’re a genius.”
My hands curled into fists again, useless.
He took a step closer. “We tested you.”
The word we made my blood run colder.
“We conditioned you,” he continued. “We watched what you became.”
I swallowed hard, forcing the next question out. “Four days.”
He slid a hand into is pocket. “Four days.”
The room seemed to tilt again, even though I was strapped to a chair and hadn’t moved.
“You took kids,” I growled. “You took kids and you—”
He lifted a hand, stopping me. “You were not taken at random. That’s the part you can’t accept.”
I bared my teeth. “Because it’s evil.”
His attention stayed steady. “No. It’s efficient.”
The words made my skin crawl.
“And Nate?” I demanded. “Was he selected too?”
The Pied Piper studied me for a moment, as if weighing how much truth to give me.
Then he said, “Nate was selected the same reason we chose you.”
My chest tightened. “Stop referring to him like he’s a file.”
He ignored it. “Nate was … receptive. Hungry. He wanted to belong more than anything else. It made him pliable in a way that you weren’t.”
The accuracy made my chest hurt.
“You don’t get to use that against him,” I said.
“I didn’t use it against him,” he replied. “I used it to predict him.”
I stared at him, shaking with rage I couldn’t tap into physically.
He took a few steps, calm and calculated. “Do you know why your body remembers even when your mind doesn’t?”
“Because you hurt me.”
He nodded. “Pain writes itself deeper into the tissues of your brain.”
My neck and shoulders tensed as the images from the film tried to replay. Tape. Needles. A boy begging behind glass. Snakes sliding over skin.
I forced my thoughts back to Sloane, her mouth pressed to mine, her hands, her voice.
“You’re doing all this because you like it. You’re a fucking sick motherfucker.”
He looked almost offended. “No.” He leaned in slightly. “I do it because it works. I get the results I want.”
I ground my teeth together. “Then what do you want from me now?”
He studied me like he was deciding how much effort I deserved. “Here’s something else you can fixate over.”
My spine tightened. He didn’t answer my question.
“You were also beaten because you became a threat to my control over Ella,” he said.
The name hit like a knife to my gut, and I went still.
He watched my reaction with quiet satisfaction. “You inserted yourself into a situation you didn’t understand. You thought you could leverage information. You thought you could force a confession.”
My hands clenched into fists. “I wasn’t going to hurt her. I was trying to help her break free of you.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course you were.”
My vision sharpened with rage. “I was.”
He shrugged. “You were threatening her stability. Her loyalty. Her silence.”
I strained against the rope again, the chair creaking. “I wasn’t blackmailing her.”
His eyes held mine. “You were doing something worse.”
I went still, my breathing shallow.
“You were making her aware,” he said softly. “You were pulling her attention away from where I wanted it. That’s why you were corrected.”
Corrected. The word made me want to fucking vomit. “Then I survived. And the man you tried to kill disappeared.”
His smile deepened. “Yes.”
“And you sent Hamilton to bait me.”
He clapped, as if I’d solved a puzzle.
“So you used him to get me here,” I said.
He tilted his head. “You came here because of Sloane.”
I didn’t deny it.
“You love her. You’re attached. Attachment makes men stupid.”
He watched me. He stepped closer, but far enough away that I couldn’t bite him, and he lowered his voice. “You traded yourself because you believe you can protect her and Nate by containing this.” He smiled as if saying hello to a neighbor across the street. “You can’t contain me.”
I stared at him, every muscle screaming.
The Pied Piper straightened. “Now.” He indicated toward the door.
The man near the wall moved instantly. He crossed the room and reached for the knots around my wrists.
I tensed so hard the chair creaked again. “What are you doing?”
The Pied Piper watched calmly as the man’s fingers worked. “Changing the conditions.”
The rope loosened, and blood surged back into my hands, sharp and painful. My shoulders screamed as sensation started to return. I didn’t move yet. I didn’t waste the moment. I let my body collect itself, let the pain settle into something usable.
The rope around my ankles loosened next, and I flexed one foot, then the other.
The man stepped back.
I stayed seated with my attention locked on the Pied Piper.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t step away. He seemed pleased. “Get up.”
My hands curled into fists. My wrists were raw. My body ached. My head was full of rage and missing time and the taste of blood I couldn’t locate.
And still, his calm made the room feel dangerous.
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the door like a host inviting me into his home.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
I glared at him. “Why?”
His expression flashed with amusement.
“I’m going to show you what you were made for.” Then he motioned me in.
I followed because standing still was another kind of surrender.