19. Ellie
ELLIE
A scream rips through the concrete and jolts me awake.
Again.
How many times have I woken up in this hole? Twice? Three? The drugs make it hard to track. Every time I open my eyes, another chunk of time is simply gone.
I remember Grace’s voice. A polished, Ivy League lilt promising dinner with her husband, Julian. Promising answers. Then the cold slide of metal against my skin.
Another fucking needle.
The sedatives have left my head heavy and my vestibular system tilted. My tongue is a dry, tacky against the roof of my mouth. Whatever they keep pumping into me turns my thoughts sluggish, making time slip away in chunks I can’t account for.
I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. I don’t know if I ever made it to dinner.
I don’t know anything except that I’m still in this cell, still breathing the same stale, filtered air, still being watched by that blinking red light in the corner.
I keep my eyes shut. I count my breaths, waiting for the room to stop its slow, cadent spin.
The concrete floor is a heat-sink, pulling the warmth from the thin mattress.
Cold air raises goosebumps on my arms, the kind that keeps you miserable without killing you.
There is the smell of antiseptic circulating through the vents, and a trace of something else.
Cologne.
The scent hits me. Sandalwood and clove. Not Killian’s cologne, but close enough. That same woody, spicy, masculine smell that used to mean safety when he wrapped his arms around me.
Now it’s twisted into this. Whatever the hell this place is.
I shove the thought away before it can take root. I can’t think about Killian right now. I can’t wonder if he’s bleeding out somewhere or already dead. That way leads to breaking, and I can’t afford to break.
I crack my eyes open and immediately regret it. The lighting is designed to be hell, bright enough that I can’t sleep properly, but dim enough that I have to squint to see anything clearly.
The cell hasn't changed. Twelve by fourteen feet of institutional beige.
The same concrete walls that have been closing in on me for two days.
The same heavy metal door with no interior handle.
The same camera in the upper corner, its tiny red light a constant fuck-you reminder that someone is always watching.
I push myself upright, fighting a wave of vertigo. But one thing has changed while I was under. The tactical gear I was wearing when I arrived is gone. I’m dressed in plain gray scrubs.
Someone undressed me. Oh, fuck.
I yank the collar of the scrub top forward. My bra is gone, replaced by a thin, elastic black sports top. I hook my fingers under the waistband of the pants and pull them away from my hips.
Generic black cotton. Not mine.
They stripped me bare while I was unconscious.
I let go of the waistband. My stomach turns over. To change those clothes, someone had to touch me. Roll me over. Look at me. Jesus.
My fingers are shaking. This is Grace’s first lesson. You control nothing here. Not your consciousness. Not your clothing. Not what happens to your body while you’re unable to defend it.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly colder than the temperature alone can explain. Whoever changed my clothes is probably on the other side of that camera lens. They could be watching the way I’m shivering right now, waiting for the first crack to show.
Nausea rolls through me. I focus on the cold concrete under my feet, the sensation anchoring me until my stomach settles.
I will not break. Not over this. Not when there might be worse things coming.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Someone’s hands on my unconscious body.
Pulling off my clothes. Seeing me. Touching me.
And I’ll never know who or what they did while I was under.
But spiralling doesn't get me out of here.
I don’t know what time it is. What day it is. The attack replays in fragments that slice through the brain fog. Breaking glass. Gunfire. Killian shouting my name.
I remember Killian lunging for me before the light went out.
Is he alive?
The question tries to claw its way up my throat. I force it down, force everything down into a locked box in my chest where it can’t touch me. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford. Not here. Not when Grace Ross is holding all the cards and I’m holding nothing but a drugged haze and fear.
But the question doesn’t disappear. It sits there, gnawing. Is he alive?
The door opens with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. I maintain the facade of disorientation, eyes half-lidded, forcing my muscles to stay slack. Through lowered lashes, I watch Grace Ross enter.
She wears a charcoal wool dress. The kind of heavy, expensive fabric that doesn't dare to wrinkle, even in a damp concrete hole. Not a thread out of place. She looks less like a kidnapper and more like she should be chairing a board of trustees, not overseeing this. Whatever this is.
That’s the point. Nothing about her screams monster. Everything about her screams old money, sophistication, and power.
Which makes her lethal.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Hart. I apologize for the delay. I imagine you were expecting to be escorted to dinner with Julian by now."
I move my head slowly, letting it dip for a second before I force my eyes to find hers.
I need her to see the lag, the effort it costs me just to hold my head upright.
I need her to believe that while my brain is firing, my body is still trapped in the lag of the sedatives.
I push myself straighter, my joints stiff.
"You said Julian was eager to meet me. He clearly wasn't that eager."
"Plans change. Julian was called away on… business, I'm afraid. He sends his regrets."
She’s lying. I can tell by the way she delivers it, as smooth as her fucking dress, and as carefully put together.
Whether Julian is actually absent or simply waiting elsewhere is irrelevant.
The message is clear: expectations will be created and then shattered.
Nothing is reliable. Nothing is certain.
"Then why am I here?" I ask, letting just enough confusion into my voice to keep her interested.
"Because you have information we need." She studies me. "And because I've been looking forward to meeting you professionally for quite some time."
A chair appears through the door, carried by a silent guard dressed head to toe in black.
He mustn't be older than twenty-one judging by his youthful appearance, nose ring and the tattoos I see creeping up his neck.
His large stature makes this room feel cramped.
Grace settles into the chair with the casual elegance of someone accustomed to comfort in all circumstances.
"I find that colleagues often achieve the most productive results," she continues, crossing her legs at the ankle. "Don't you agree, Dr. Hart? Your background in psychological trauma gives you a unique perspective on our situation."
She’s researched me and my academic work. She’s been studying me the same way I used to study case files. She's profiling me. Looking for what I protect, what I avoid, what I'll trade to feel safe.
"I'm not sure what you mean by 'colleagues.'"
The words come out steadier than I expected. I need to keep them that way. I need her to see a professional, not a victim.
“Please.” She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence.
We’re both specialists in the human mind.
I in extraction, you in healing. Opposite sides of the same discipline.
You chose healing, because you believed understanding pain was the same as having power over it.
" She tilts her head. "I wonder if you still believe that. "
Everything in me goes still. I’ve heard rumors of therapists who twisted their training into the art of dismantling minds rather than healing them.
The fact that I’m looking at one in the flesh means I’m more fucked than I thought.
"I have nothing to tell you."
"Everyone says that initially." She smiles, a curated expression of pity.
"And yet everyone breaks, eventually. The only variables are time and method.
" She leans forward. "I prefer elegance.
Whilst physical torture is so... primitive, it certainly has its place.
But the mind can create far worse suffering than any instrument of pain. "
The words land because they're true. I know what psychological trauma looks like from the inside out. A broken bone knits itself back together. A broken mind just keeps breaking.
"You've been unusually effective with Killian Blackthorn," she continues, her eyes locked on mine. "Breaking through barriers that have remained intact for years. I'm curious to understand how you managed that."
"My relationship with Killian was therapeutic." The lie is automatic. A defensive reflex.
"Was it?" Her smile widens. "The surveillance in your home suggests otherwise. Your intimate activities were particularly... non-therapeutic."
Heat floods my face. Shame and rage and violation all mix together until I can’t tell which is which. I keep my expression still. The surveillance confirms what Killian had suspected. But her specific knowledge of our intimate moments suggests observation over time, not just recent monitoring.
"You've been watching us?"
"Of course." She says it as if it’s obvious.
Like watching us was the most natural thing in the world.
"Killian has been of interest to us since his apparent defection from the Order.
And you became fascinating by association.
" She pauses, head tilting slightly. "Though I admit, my interest in you predates your involvement with him. "
"Why?"
"Your father's research, naturally." She watches the shock register on my face. "Project Ghost. The classified work you've only glimpsed in redacted files. The connection to Killian you've never fully understood."