Ellie #2
I back away instinctively. "Grace wouldn't approve."
"Mrs. Ross isn't here." He advances slowly. "And what she doesn't know won't hurt either of us. She’s too busy with her ‘consultations’ to worry about how I spend my time."
My back hits the wall. Reed's eyes gleam with satisfaction at my obvious fear. He reaches out, tracing a finger along the marks on my neck, his handiwork from yesterday.
"Pretty colors, for a pretty girl," he murmurs. "We should add some more to the collection."
He steps closer, the smell of stale coffee and cigarettes filling the space between us. "Mrs. Ross likes to play mind games. She thinks she can talk you into surrendering. I have a faster method."
His hand slides down my side, his fingers digging into my ribs with enough pressure to make it hard to breathe. I jerk away, but he’s already yanking me back, his grip on my arm tightening until his fingers are hard against the bone. My hand goes numb.
"Don’t," I say, but it comes out weaker than I want.
Reed grins. "Or what?"
His palm cracks across my face before I can answer. Pain explodes hot across my cheekbone, and everything goes white. One second. Two. When my vision clears, Reed’s grinning down at me, his hand already tangled in my hair, pulling my head back until my neck strains.
"You think because she gave you a nice room, you’re special?" His breath is hot against my ear. "You’re an object, pretty girl. And objects don’t get to say no."
His other hand finds my backside, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. He squeezes. Testing how much he can take before I break.
My pulse hammers against the bruises on my throat. Each beat a reminder that Reed’s hands were just there, that they’ll be there again, that I can’t fucking stop it.
“See?” His laugh scrapes across my skin. “That wasn’t so bad.”
I don’t answer. My body’s already wound tight, waiting for what comes next. The next hit. The next violation. The complete destruction of any illusion of safety this room provided.
Reed leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "Next time," he murmurs, "I won’t stop there."
His hand snakes around my waist just as the door swings open.
Grace is there, her face a mask of smooth, empty porcelain. There’s no anger in her eyes. There’s nothing. An absence of emotion that’s infinitely more terrifying than Reed’s rage.
Reed jerks away from me, his face going pale in real time. "Mrs. Ross, I was just…"
A man steps into the light from the corridor.
Broad-shouldered, older than Reed, his face so unremarkable I’d forget it in five minutes.
Except for the eyes. Dead eyes. Like great white shark eyes stalking through the ocean.
They don’t seem to blink or react. They track movement and wait for the moment to strike.
The man moves without a word. He grabs Reed by the throat and slams him against the wall.
His skull hits the concrete with a wet crunch that makes my stomach turn.
The sound echoes in the small room. Bone on stone.
Reed’s head rebounds off the wall, and I can hear the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
The sound both unmistakable and nauseating.
“Instructions regarding Dr. Hart were explicit.” Grace examines her manicured nails while the older man’s fist connects with Reed’s temple. The crack of knuckles on bone makes me flinch. “No touching without permission.”
Reed crumples. Still conscious. Barely.
“Your time will come,” Grace adds. Almost gentle.
Reed gasps. "I—"
"Lying worsens it. Eleanor is mine."
That’s when I see it. A small splatter of blood on Grace’s immaculate sleeve.
"Someone else's session this morning?" The question slips out before I can choke it back. My filter is failing, eroded by the lack of sleep and the consistent, low-level hum of terror.
Grace’s eyes lock onto mine. The polished veneer doesn't crack; it goes cold, like a screen switching off. There’s a void where the empathy should be, a flat, reptilian stillness that makes the air in the room feel thin.
"Perceptive." She glances at her sleeve. "A consultation with another guest. He proved resistant to the logic of his situation."
The man steps back from Reed. The man is still conscious, but his eyes are clouded, his breathing ragged and wet. Grace crouches beside him, her movements effortless, the sharp click of her heels the only sound in the sudden silence.
"This is a teaching moment, Reed. For you and Dr. Hart both.
" She produces a silk handkerchief, white as bone, and gently dabs the blood from his chin. It’s a motherly gesture, terrifying in its intimacy.
"I employ a progressive disciplinary scale. This was an introductory infraction. There won’t be a second. "
Reed nods. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't look at anything.
"Tony, escort Reed to medical. Four hours for recovery, then back to the rotation." She rises, the movement fluid and disciplined. "Eleanor, I believe this clarifies our boundaries. Your physical integrity is a functional requirement for our work. I intend to maintain it."
The way she says physical integrity makes me want to scrub my skin raw. It’s not about my safety. I’m an asset being maintained. A tool that needs to be kept in working order so it can perform.
"What work?" I ask, my voice sounding like it's coming from someone else.
"The work of remembering, Eleanor. Let's hope your memory is as sharp as your observation." She smiles. "I have documentation of previous guests who lacked your... intellectual advantages. The methods required for them were significantly less aesthetic. I’d prefer not to repeat them."
They leave, and I sink to the floor.
My body keeps its own record. Rhythmic tremors in my hands. A constant, metallic taste in the back of my throat. Adrenaline crash. I know the clinical names for every symptom, but the labels don't stop the cold from vibrating in my teeth.
Performance. Engineered trauma. The Altar of the Aggressor. I’m being groomed to see her as the barrier between me and Tony’s fists.
I learned the theory in grad school. Manufactured savior syndrome.
Now I’m the case study.
I spend the afternoon trying to outrun my own thoughts until the deadbolt clicks. Grace walks in, her expression as blank as the blue walls. She stands by the desk, watching me with a stillness that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"I'd like to discuss your father's work," she continues, observing me as she enters. "Specifically, his research on cognitive imprinting and memory recovery."
"I told you, I don't know about his classified work."
"Yet you recognized the term 'Project Ghost' immediately." Grace smiles. "Your micro-expressions are quite revealing, Eleanor. Your pupil dilation, the slight tension around your mouth, your body betrays what your words conceal."
She's right, of course. The project name had triggered something, a half-remembered conversation overheard in my father's study years ago, and a name written in notes. And then, of course, the conversation with the guys at my house about ‘Ghost’. But the details remain frustratingly opaque.
"Whatever you think I know, you're overestimating my value."
"I don't think so," Grace's certainty is unnerving. "Gregory trusted you. That makes you invaluable, whether you recognize it yet or not."
We circle each other verbally for what feels like hours. She's a formidable interrogator, twisting and turning until I have no idea which way is up and which is down. The back-and-forth goes on until my head aches and my mouth is dry. It could be an hour, or it could be three.
What disturbs me most is her knowledge of my relationship with Killian, intimate details that could only have come from extensive surveillance. Grace watched us. She recorded it. Studied it.
I’d rather she hit me.
"I’ve watched Killian for years, but the person he is with you is new. The 'Ellie' version. It’s a remarkable shift for a man who has tortured information from countless victims. The same man with so many secrets about your father."
"What are you talking about?" I tense immediately.
"Oh, this is interesting. He hasn't told you anything, has he?" Her lips curve upward. "How very protective of him."
"Told me what?" The words come out too sharp, too defensive. I hear it as soon as I say it. The edge in my voice that tells Grace she hit a nerve. Damn it.