Chapter 1
one
Jo
Holy shit.
What in the name of all that is good and holy happened to me?
My head pounds harder than a woodpecker goin' at an oak tree. The last thing I remember…is the orderlies coming to get me for my transfer to Thornfield.
About damn time. I had to sit in solitary for three days after I stabbed that quack Dr. Nelson in the leg. I have to say though, this is the worst I’ve felt waking up after a facility transfer. Which is saying something, because I’ve gone through five others in the last year.
Groaning as the stench of black walnuts invades my nose, I fight the urge to dry heave right then and there. I know I'm not back by the tree Daddy used to serve my beatings against, but that scent…
"Oh good, she's awake." A man's voice sounds in the room, and I crack my eyes open. Bright light assaults my senses, and my wrists twitch, only to be caught by the harsh edges of metal.
Blinking rapidly, I try to move my wrists again to find that they are, in fact, cuffed to the hospital bed I'm currently laid up in. That's when I see the source of the scent that haunts my dreams.
"Josephine, it's nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Walter Brooks, the lead behavioral scientist here at Thornfield." The beta's beady eyes study me behind his glasses, his balding head shining with sweat.
Gross.
The room is stark white, with nothing on the walls. The omega inside me whimpers at the lack of cozy blankets and bedding. The scratchy blanket on my lap makes my teeth grate, but I’ll get over it. I don't know how long it's been since I've had anything resembling a nest.
Dr. Brooks sits on a stool a good three feet away from the bed, and there's a man—an alpha—standing in the corner of the room with his eyes intent on me. He looks different from any orderlies I've ever seen, with tattoos crawling up his neck and covering his shaved head.
There are no cameras in this room, unlike all the doctor’s offices in my previous facilities. Strange.
"Doctor Brooks." I wince as my wrists unconsciously move against the handcuffs again. "It's a right pleasure to meet you as well."
"Well, aren't you something?" Dr. Brooks' eyes shine with something that I can't place. "A regular Southern belle, aren't you?"
I almost laugh. Nobody would consider me a Southern belle, even if I do have the accent and manners to go along with it. "If I say yes, will that get these cuffs off me?"
Doctor Brooks looks almost apologetic for a moment. "Oh, yes…about those. My nurse will be here in just a minute with a mild impulse inhibitor to keep you…agreeable, and then we can take those right off. I don't want to get stabbed like your last psychologist." He gives a nervous laugh.
I have to admit, this is not what I thought I'd be walking into when I finally got transferred to the Thornfield Asylum for the Criminally Insane.
"Well, Doc," I give my best debutante smile, "as long as we call me 'Jo', I don't foresee that being an issue."
Before he can answer, the door opens, and a pretty woman with brown hair and kind eyes walks in with a metal tray.
Without a word, she swipes an alcohol pad over the inside of my elbow, uncaps a syringe, taps it a few times, and slides it into the vein of my arm.
Her soft beta scent of fresh linen is almost comforting.
She's good at her job—I hardly feel the needle, but do note that the vein is easier to see than normal, considering I haven't been in the sun in at least three weeks—not since I got punished for shoving that shiv in Nancy Tolstein’s boob.
"What's in the other vials, Doc?" I ask, letting my voice show a hint of nervousness. There are two more syringes on the tray next to me, one full of a bright orange liquid, the other filled with a metallic looking, vibrant blue substance.
Dr. Brooks waits for a moment, watching me intently, before motioning to the orderly who comes over and unlocks my handcuffs.
The orderly's stale leather scent is highly offensive to my omega senses, but I do my best not to wrinkle my nose, instead focusing on the feeling of the medication spreading through me.
It's strange, I don't feel any different than I did a minute ago, but the doc must be satisfied with my demeanor because he gives me a satisfied smile as he watches.
"Why thank you, sir." I smile as I massage my wrists. The orderly only grunts, his lip tilted up in a sneer before he positions himself back at the wall.
"I have to say, Ms. Harding, for someone who has the murder of thirteen alphas on their hands…you're much more amenable than I had thought you'd be," Dr. Brooks observes. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was…kind.
But…I do know better.
"Every single one of those alphas deserved to die, Doc." I smile sweetly.
"Including your father?" He hedges, clearly fascinated by my lack of remorse. Oh, goodie. We have Doc Nelson 2.0.
"Especially my father." The word is acid on my tongue, and for a split second, my mask cracks.
But then it's back, and I give him a blinding smile, my voice saccharine. "Unless you believe that abusers and rapists should run free?"
Something flashes across Dr. Brooks' expression briefly, and I absently wonder which of the two he's guilty of.
"Of course not," he says quickly, then motions to the metal tray the nurse brought in.
"To answer your earlier question…well, the vials are a choice. Here at Thornfield, we like to…let nature run its course without those pesky instincts getting in the way. Our scientists research the link between crime rates and alpha and omega instincts. This is a new drug we're developing to…tamp them down. For alphas, it takes away their possessive urges, keeps fights from breaking out over dominance levels, and renders their bark null and void—which, as an omega, I’m sure you can appreciate.” I grimace.
I have too many memories of Daddy barking at me to “stay the fuck still” so he could properly deliver my beating.
Either Dr. Brooks doesn’t notice my expression or he doesn’t care, because he just keeps right on talking.
“For omegas, we create a sort of cocktail that will suppress heats and your scent.
Everyone has a job, like helping in the kitchens or cleaning the bathrooms, but when you're not doing that you'll be able to participate in therapy, go to our movie nights, read in the library, and essentially have as much of a fulfilling life as you can. "
My brow furrows. This…this does not sound like a place where the "worst of the worst" go.
"The other option?" I ask, the waver in my voice not entirely fabricated.
"If you deny the first option, we'll have no choice but to keep you in a more…pliable state…permanently. You'll be kept with the rest of the…patients who are deemed too dangerous to roam with the rest of them."
Pliable. So…what he means is “catatonic”.
A harsh laugh leaves me, and I earn myself disturbed looks from Doc, the orderly, and the nurse.
"Am I missin' somethin' here? This is Thornfield Asylum for the Criminally Insane.
I killed thirteen men in cold blood, and you're going to…
what? Let me roam free? Let me go watch a rom-com with Jerry who probably murdered just as many people as me? "
It's too good to be true.
"Ah, I see why you're confused." Dr. Brooks, says in that voice that might seem kind to anyone else. "We're not Thornfield Asylum for the Criminally Insane anymore. Well, we are, to the outside world, and for the people who choose the second option. But for everyone that chooses the better way? We're just Thornfield. Around thirty years ago, the great-grandson of our founder, Isaac Thornfield, felt that there had to be a better way to run things than having everyone walking around like zombies all the time. And he was right. You'll see for yourself, if you pick the correct option. You’ll actually find that you’ll be afforded many more freedoms than you had in the last…" he checks something in the file he’s holding, “five facilities you’ve been in. You’ve been quite the little troublemaker, haven’t you, Jo? I can assure you, our staff are more than equipped to…handle someone like you. You won’t be transferring any time soon, so you may as well play by the rules and reap the rewards.”
My throat is dry as I swallow. "So…we become guinea pigs, and in exchange…we get to walk around with our wits about us?"
"Make no mistake, Ms. Harding, if you murder a single person in this building, you'll have the choice taken from you and get put in with the rest of the criminally insane.
But…as long as you attend the mandated psych sessions to evaluate your progress on the drug and do your part to help the community flourish, then yes. "
The community? What kind of self-righteous, culty bullshit is that?
Either way I'm gonna have to have drugs injected into me. I knew that going in, but really, having the scientists of this joint doing some weird kumbaya experiment works in my favor.
The choice is easy.
"What if it's in self-defense?" I ask, frowning. It won't affect my decision, but I need to know just how strict they're going to be with me.
Dr. Brooks frowns right back. "If you have to kill someone in self-defense? Jo, I assure you, it won't come to that. We haven't had a life-threatening violence situation in just under thirty years."
Huh. About the same time they switched up their programming.
"I suppose I'll have to do my part for the community then." I smile, holding my arm out, and the doctor gets a sick smile on his face.
"I knew you'd make the right choice, Josephine—Jo.
" He quickly corrects himself and I have to give the fucker one thing, he knows how to not step on any toes.
With that, the nurse grabs my arm with gentle hands and takes the syringe with the metallic looking liquid before sliding the needle into my arm.
A chill spills through my veins and up to my shoulder, but it's not uncomfortable.