17. Ellie
ELLIE
Cold. That's my first conscious thought.
Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind that’s already inside you, wrapped around your bones like it belongs there.
My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Opening them requires every ounce of energy I don’t fucking have. When I finally manage to crack them apart, fluorescent light stabs directly into my brain. Sharp. Merciless. I slam them shut again, breathing through clenched teeth.
The attack. The explosion. Killian’s face as concrete and fire separated us.
My pulse is thudding in my ears. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. The technique I’ve taught dozens of patients now keeps me from spiraling into a full panic attack.
When I open my eyes again, blinking through the pain, I register my surroundings like I’m assessing a patient’s environment. Except I’m the patient now. And this room is designed for breaking people.
Concrete walls. A metal door with no handle on my side, hinges facing out where I can’t reach them. There is a single light fixture behind a wire cage, and a drainage hole in the center of the sloped floor.
A drainage hole.
For what, exactly? Water? Blood? Both?
A metal toilet in the corner. No seat. No privacy. A security camera mounted high, red light blinking steadily. Someone’s watching.
The professional assessment steadies me. Barely.
I'm lying on a narrow metal bed frame with a thin mattress. No pillow. No blanket. Just a bare vinyl-covered foam pad beneath me. The type that tells me it is designed to be easily hosed down.
Cataloging the room helps. Gives my mind something to do besides spiraling into panic.
Professional assessment as a survival mechanism.
I force myself to sit up. Nausea slams into me immediately, making the room spin.
I breathe through it, refusing to vomit in front of whoever’s watching that camera.
My mouth tastes like I’ve been licking batteries, metallic and acidic.
Whatever they sedated me with is still in my system, making my tongue thick and stupid in my mouth.
My legs swing over the bed's edge. The fabric of yesterday's clothes still clings to my skin, wrinkled and smoke-scented from the attack. My feet connect with bare concrete, the chill shooting up through my soles. My toes curl involuntarily against the cold.
Every muscle in my body seems to scream out in protest. Not the good kind of sore from a workout. The kind that tells me I’ve been unconscious in the same position for hours. Maybe longer.
Or maybe they gave me something else. Something worse than sedatives.
My shoulders feel like someone took a baseball bat to them. When I roll my neck, vertebrae crack in succession, relief and fresh pain chasing each other down my spine.
I stand carefully, testing my balance. My legs feel shaky but hold my weight.
I glance at both of my wrists and rub the tender wounds from where the zip-ties bit into the skin.
My watch is gone, taking with it any connection to the passing time in this cell.
I move to the door first. My hand runs over the smooth, solid metal, searching for a seam or a weak point.
Nothing but electronic locks and hinges on the outside, out of sight.
There aren’t even keyholes to pick. Whoever designed this, whatever this is, knows what they're doing.
Next, I survey the rest of the room, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon or tool. Nothing. The space has been stripped of anything remotely useful.
The stark reality of my situation begins to settle in. I'm alone, unarmed and imprisoned. Somewhere underground, judging by the lack of windows and the damp chill in the air. I have no idea if Killian or any of the others have survived the attack.
The image hits me before I can stop it. Killian’s body in the rubble of my home. Those storm-gray eyes that looked at me like I was worth saving. Empty. Staring at nothing. Blood spreading beneath him while flames consume everything.
My throat closes. Tears burn behind my eyes, and I let them come. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the terror of him being gone, of facing these people alone, of never getting to tell him—
No.
Breathe. Just breathe. In and out until the panic recedes.
Speculation without data is useless. I can’t afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not when I might still have a chance. I need to focus on what I can control, which at the moment isn’t much.
But, fuck, it hurts.
I close my eyes again, centering myself. I'm still alive, which means they want something from me. As long as I have value, I have time. And as long as I have time, I have a chance.
The sudden electronic beep of the door lock disengaging yanks me from my thoughts. I step back, positioning myself beside the bed, defensive but not cowering. Whatever's coming, I'll face it with as much dignity and clarity as I can muster.
The door swings open smoothly, revealing a woman who seems utterly out of place in the drab corridor beyond.
The woman who steps through doesn’t belong here.
She looks to be in her late forties with a platinum blonde bob and a dove-gray suit. She stands there like someone who learned ballet before she learned to walk, with refined posture and elegance.
Her perfume reaches me before she does. Amber and sandalwood, expensive and completely wrong in this concrete box that smells like bleach and despair. It’s like finding an orchid growing in a grave.
Her pale blue eyes assess me in the same way I’ve assessed my own patients a thousand times. Searching for cracks. Weak points. The difference is that I look for them to heal. She’s looking for them to exploit.
"Dr. Hart," she says, her voice cultured and pleasant. "I'm pleased to see you're awake. I hope you're not suffering too badly from the sedation. The effects should wear off completely within the hour."
She glides into the room like she owns it.
Like she owns me. Her presence fills the concrete box, making it feel even smaller, as if the walls themselves are bending to accommodate her authority.
Her heels strike the concrete floor, each click echoing in the damp air as she circles me with the deliberate slowness of authority.
Her eyes travel over my disheveled form in a methodical fashion, assessing with clinical detachment. Her circuit around me feels less like an introduction and more like the establishment of ownership, the predatory ritual of a collector deciding exactly how I'll be displayed in her collection.
Her gaze drops to my wrists as she passes behind me. I feel her pause, examining the raw marks where zip ties or rope cut into my skin during the capture.
“They were a bit rough with you, I see.” Her tone suggests mild disappointment, like a hotel manager apologizing for a stained towel. “Julian prefers a more... civilized approach. But field operatives can be overzealous.”
She doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t offer medical attention. Only sees the damage like its data worth noting.
The clinical observation is somehow worse than if she’d ignored the wounds entirely.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” She sounds disappointed, like I’ve failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
I don’t answer. I’ve learned enough about predators to know that silence is sometimes the smartest response.
She circles me slowly, heels clicking on the concrete with each step.
“My name is Grace Ross.” She stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the fine lines around her eyes that expensive makeup almost hides.
“And you, Eleanor Hart, have been the subject of my husband’s interest for quite some time. ”
Ross.
Fuck.
The Order’s shadow leader. The man Killian betrayed when he chose me. The monster behind every threat, every attack, every reason I’m in this concrete box.
I keep my expression neutral. Years of therapy sessions taught me how to hide reactions, though I never thought I’d need the skill to survive.
"Where am I? Where is Killian?"
Grace smiles, the expression not reaching her eyes. "All in good time, Dr. Hart. First, I imagine you're thirsty?"
She walks to the doorway and returns with a water bottle. The plastic seal cracks when she twists the cap, obscenely loud in the concrete quiet.
She holds it out.
I don’t move.
My throat is like sandpaper. My tongue dry and useless in my mouth. Every cell in my body screams for that water, but taking it means accepting something from her. It means acknowledging the power dynamic we both know exists.
“It’s not poisoned or drugged,” she says with clear amusement. “That would be rather counterproductive at this stage.”
At this stage. Meaning later, all bets are off.
I take the bottle. Our fingers brush, hers cool and dry, nails perfectly manicured in pale pink. I hesitate for three seconds, weighing my options. Dehydration will only weaken me, and if they want me drugged, they have easier methods than waiting for voluntary cooperation.
The water is cool on my parched tongue. I force myself to sip slowly when I want to gulp it down, and Grace watches me like a scientist observing a lab rat’s behavior.
"How long have I been here? And where exactly is 'here'?"
Grace's smile widens slightly. "You've been our guest for approximately thirteen hours. As for where you are," she gestures vaguely. "Let's just say we're somewhere secure and private. The specific location isn't relevant to our purposes."
Her non-answer is revealing. They don't want me to know where I am, which means they're concerned about the possibility of escape or rescue. I file that information away for later.