CHAPTER THREE - BIRDIE #2
I glare up into his pretty denim eyes. There’s a hint of cruelty in his smirk, but it’s the amusement that makes me stiffen, because he’s clearly enjoying the way I’m struggling against him.
A sour flavor coats my tongue, and I have to admit I was wrong about him being a pushover.
Even with all my strength, I can’t break the hold he has on me. Fucking annoying alpha muscles!
“Don’t make it worse,” Gung Ho growls, and I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but he reaches between us and snaps something on my wrists.
I stare down at the plastic zip ties in shock.
What the hell? Did the asshole have them in his back pocket?
“There’s a toilet and washbasin through that door,” he goes on, like he didn’t just make me his actual prisoner.
“Extra water bottles and blankets are in the closet. I’ll remove the restraints once you’ve settled down and bring you food when you’re through the worst of it. ”
Fuck him and his drill sergeant routine.
Before he’s finished pointing out all the features of his snug little hellhole, I lunge past them, my bound hands scrambling for the doorknob.
They’re slick with sweat and numb from the cold, and I barely make contact before Gung Ho grabs my upper arms. I buck, trying to kick his shin, but he sidesteps my attack with ease.
His arms come all the way around me, pulling me back against his chest, and he steers me over to the cot.
There’s something so humiliating about his manhandling, given that with one bark, he could have me flat on my face.
But no, he has to drag me around like I’m a naughty kid fighting bedtime.
“It’s alright,” he says in a soothing tone. “Just calm down and we can work through this.”
Calm down? Work through this? Does he not get the whole jailer/prisoner dynamic? I want to scoff in his face, but as he carefully sets me on the edge of the cot, I don’t know whether to bite him in the dick or weep into my bound hands.
“What's with the twitching?” The drunk is standing over me, close enough to smell his alpha musk through his clothes. I wait for my lip to curl in disgust, but instead a trickle of warmth fills my belly. It’s enough to make me shudder, and he cocks a brow. “You seen that before, boss?”
I doubt it, since the groan that’s trying to leave my throat is brushing up against my speech inhibitor. Not enough to set it off, but my fingers are flexing and curling at the promise of pain.
“She's an addict,” Go Hung says quietly, like I’m not right in front of them. “The only way past it is through it.”
The pretty drunk tilts his head, those blurry eyes sharpening as they study my face. “Maybe she needs a different kind of rough love.”
“You mean tough love.” Gung Ho scowls at him. “And forget it. She’s not here for that.”
“She's our guest.” Those blue eyes crawl over me again, the pupils so wide it feels like I’m looking into his soul. Which in this instance is a lot like teetering on the edge of an abyss. “I'm only being hospitable, boss.”
“You’re being an ass.” Gung Ho shoves his shoulder, his scent laced with a thread of violence. He might like to think he’s a good little soldier, following orders and looking out for his men, but there are cracks, and they’re getting wider. “Go sleep it off, for fuck’s sake.”
There’s no denying the command in his bark, but the pretty drunk just nudges the wire bed with his knee. “Well, shouldn’t I stay here too if this is the rehab wing? We could be roomies.”
“Out.”
The pretty drunk snorts at his pack alpha’s growl, but he leaves, his boots dragging over concrete as he heads up the stairs.
I’m pretty sure he stumbles somewhere near the top, but when he doesn’t come bouncing back down, I’m left staring at Gung Ho’s troubled face.
I can sense a heartfelt speech coming, and as he plants his hands on his hips, he doesn’t disappoint.
“Birdie, you need to understand that we’re limited in what we can do for you.
Other than the basics, you're going to have to fight this battle alone. Addiction is hard, but you have everything you need down here to get past this first hurdle.” He walks to the door, casting a glance back at me. “I'll check in every few hours.”
Don't lock me in.
I can’t speak the words aloud, but he gets the message. “Trust me, it's for your own good.” He rubs the divot between his brows. “Purging your demons is never easy, but you have to try.”
Fuck him. He’s the demon. He should purge his own damn shit.
But am I really surprised he’s locking me in here, tied up and beaten down? I thought I’d seen every kind of cruelty alphas like to dish out, but this is clearly just another shade of hell.
I listen for the slide of the bolt as he leaves, waiting ten seconds before trying the door.
It doesn’t budge, and I glare at the zip ties on my wrists.
There’s enough give between them for me to be able to do basic things, but I’m still restrained, and in terms of my mental health, that is really, really bad…
I shove down my panic and begin the careful process of checking each wall for an exit point.
I grimace when I come up empty, but I’m not really surprised.
These guys are military, after all, and would know a thing or two about laying traps.
Using my hip, I nudge aside the few bits of furniture and roll back the rug with my foot.
Like the walls, the floor is sealed tight, with no obvious way out.
Since I’m not built to give up without a fight, I drop to my knees and crawl across the rough boards, searching every groove and divot with my fingers.
Best case scenario would be a hidden door, but at this stage I’d settle for a loose floorboard or even a rusty nail.
Grimacing in frustration, I go back over the walls, checking them twice before I give up.
It’s as secure as a box can be, but at least I don’t find any cameras.
After my experiences in the lab, being locked up and secretly observed makes me want to peel off my skin.
Always look for the light in the cracks, little firefly.
Spurred on by the distant echo of my mom’s voice, I go to the mini fridge and take out a bottle of water, checking the seal before setting it on the table next to the cot.
There’s juice, and I stare at the golden liquid for a long time, trying to remember its flavor.
It’s full of pulp, which would probably murder my throat, but the way it shimmers against the glass makes me think it would almost be worth the pain.
Leaving it in the fridge, I cross to the closet and grab a blanket.
Tossing it on the bed, I check the other shelves.
More water, another pillow, a bunch of well-thumbed paperbacks, and a box of ration bars.
I check the label, confirming they’re military issue with maximum protein and minimum flavor.
I’m pretty sure this is what the cockroaches will be feasting on when they both survive the nuclear blast.
I take out a single bar, but I don’t open the wrapper, placing it beside the water bottle on the table.
My throat clicks at the sight, so I hurry over to the toilet, taking care of business and then washing my cold hands under the warm stream.
There’s a plain, square mirror above the basin and I stare at myself, careful to keep the gasp of dismay locked deep in my chest.
The last time I saw my reflection was in the lab, shining back at me from one of the doctor’s overhead lights. He liked to strap me to a reclining chair for my checkups, the blinding light blocking out everything but his hateful face…
Is this what a broken bird looks like?
My hair is usually a muddy brown color, somewhere between blonde and auburn.
Given how much time I was forced to spend indoors, summer highlights weren’t really a thing, but now it lies against my skull, a lank, shapeless brown.
My cheeks have never been so pale or hollow, and my nose looks smaller, like the air has leaked out of my skull.
The only feature that stands out is my eyes.
Almond-shaped and flecked with gold, they’re twice as striking with the dark bruises riding my lids.
The only bird you could say I even vaguely resemble is an owl, assuming said owl has flown through a tornado and is about to drop dead from its perch.
Shaking my head, I search the rest of the room, looking for any kind of sharp-edged implement. At this point, I’d settle for a rusty spoon, but what isn’t made of plastic is nailed down. Even the cot is welded to the floor, with canvas straps instead of metal springs.
Fucking paranoid assholes.
I go back to the mirror, pulling at the glass in the hope of a hidden cabinet. But there’s nothing, and I slump against the sink, my forehead pressed against my reflection.
How long are they going to keep me locked up in here?
I’m strung out, but not in the way they think.
There might be something toxic in my bloodstream, but despite my ragged appearance, I’m present, prepared, and alert.
And well aware that the longer I’m kept here, the greater the danger this mission will go off the rails.
The general might find his conscience in the bottom of his whiskey bottle and tell the doctor to pull the plug on this experiment.
If that happens, the best case scenario is I’ll be dragged back to the lab…
Not happening.
I’ll pick a fight and make Gung Ho slam my head into the concrete stairs before I let him get his hands on me again.