Chapter 25
Aurelia
Present
Apparently I needed more training on druggings and hallucinations because I’ve spent my entire life training to be strong and resilient to endless methods of torture, but I can’t even raise my head in this hellhole.
You may want to be done talking but I don’t think that’ll stop them.
The words echo in my mind. I try to focus on the entrance and the man’s words. Whoever is coming down here is obviously someone I want to see, but my head feels like it weighs fifty pounds, and I don’t know how to fix it. I hate being unaware.
I’ve done research on the effects of all kinds of drugs, but the experience of being under them is very different. I can’t seem to move, but my mind still registers the space around me. It’s limited motor control paired with stripped-down cognitive function, and it’s unbearable.
The sound of heavy boots echoes across the concrete, and I use my strength to force my eyes open again.
My vision is a bit blurred, but I can make out a buzzed head and broad shoulders that carry muscular arms with a clipboard in hand.
The white coat and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose look wrong on him, like a costume that doesn’t quite fit.
He’s more soldier than scientist, more predator than professional.
My stomach knots. I hate admitting when I’m intimidated, but even though I can’t make out his face, I know this man isn’t someone I want to be near.
He doesn’t look at me—thank god. He goes straight to the man chained to the wall across from me.
The doctor circles him slowly, jotting things down—ink scratches against paper, loud in the silence.
I try to force my head over, but I can’t see as much as I want to.
The chained man tries to lift his head, maybe to look at me or to say something to the doctor, but the doctor’s hand lashes out and clamps the back of his neck, forcing his chin to the floor. Skin reddens under the pressure of his fingers and I almost feel sorry for him.
“Zhalkiy,” the doctor spits, shoving his head lower before releasing him with a sneer.
Only after the chained man obeys and keeps his eyes down does the doctor’s gaze flick to me.
The silence stretches, my skin prickling under the weight of his study.
He does the same circling inspection, which is slow and clinical.
His pen scratches again. I force myself to be still, back straight, pretending I don’t care.
Pretending I’m not a captive who can hardly move, strapped to two beams.
When he finishes his notes, he tucks the pen into the clipboard and finally—finally—looks at me.
The air tightens.
One step. Then another. Suddenly, he’s in front of me, only inches away.
I tense as his hand rises, brushing a strand of loose hair out of my face. For a second, the touch is almost gentle. Then his fingers fist, yanking my head to the side. Pain jolts down my neck.
He forcefully turns me so we are eye to eye, and I feel helpless.
I can’t fight, and my mouth is so dry I can’t even say the words on my tongue. I want nothing more than to spit in his face and tell him what will happen if he ever tries to touch me again, but I don’t even think my mouth moves when I try.
All I can do is get my fingers to twitch.
And right when I’m about to close my eyes—submitting to the pain—I hear a rough voice in a Russian accent spit: “Khvatit. Tronesh’ yeye yeshche raz, I ya otrezhu tvoyu chertovu ruku.”
The doctor instantly releases me, smoothing down his coat with an absurd professionalism.
My head falls, hitting my arm beside me, but I keep my eyes open.
“Prinoshu svoi izvineniya. Etogo bol’she ne povtoritsya.” The doctor dips his head and exits quickly, leaving me with a clear view of the man behind the voice.
He’s impossible to miss.
His black suit fits him too perfectly, stretched across a frame built purely of muscle. Tattoos crawl from beneath his cuffs and collar, marking his neck and his hands. He is surprisingly taller than the men I’ve known my whole life, maybe six foot five.
He looks evil, a man you wouldn’t expect to have any soul left, but he’s looking at me like he’s looking at a puppy, and I hate that my heart skips a beat because of it.
In any other world, any other circumstance, I would’ve found him devastatingly attractive.
Now? Regardless of the heat building beneath me, I can push it aside with the knowledge that he’s a monster.
He leans casually against the gate, not speaking, just watching. My pulse hammers, but I force my expression into the same icy mask I’ve been trained to wear. Even if I had the ability, I wouldn’t be the first to speak. I know never to initiate a conversation with the enemy.
Finally, his gaze shifts past me, landing on the chained man.
“Stop looking at her, Adrian. I wouldn’t want you to make our new guest uncomfortable.”
So that’s his name.
The man in chains—Adrian—stiffens but doesn’t respond. The power dynamic is obvious.
I keep my death stare locked on the man in the suit. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just studies me in a way that causes my chest to tighten, but I refuse to break. Begging for my life would be weakness.
That’s not who I am.
Finally, he runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, possibly frustrated. I can’t tell, and I don’t know if my ability to assess situations is being clouded by the haze of drugs.
He pushes off the gate, slips out, and locks the door behind him with a metallic click.
The silence that follows feels like a release. Adrian actually exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
I tilt my head toward him, a small, devious smile curling as the drugs start to give me back some control.
“Hi, Adrian.”
It’s sweet, and I think he knows what I was thinking when he replies. “Don’t get too cocky, Ace. They said yours when you were getting strapped to those posts.”
Perfect.