Chapter 4 #2
When the glass was empty, he hurled it against the nearest tree, making the woman let out a shrill shriek even as she continued to choke on the water that he’d poured down her nose and had trickled down into her throat.
Then he turned and stalked back toward the house.
This woman wasn't an innocent, even if a part of him wanted her to be, and it was time to get his head on straight and into the game.
January 11th
4:48 P.M.
Numb.
That’s what Whitney felt.
Not just physically numb from the cold, it was only by some miracle that the man she was sure was Blade had come after her on a slightly milder day of weather, otherwise, she was pretty sure she would be dead from hypothermia already, but psychologically as well.
It had been stupid to think that she could escape the consequences of her actions.
Stupid to think that she deserved freedom after she’d inadvertently doomed dozens of men and women to death.
Just because she hadn't known what was going to happen when she first created that drug didn't absolve her of responsibility. If anything, she should be held more responsible because she should have known, should have seen, should have figured it out.
But she hadn't.
And people had died because of her negligence.
She deserved this. Deserved hanging by arms that had long ago lost all feeling, deserved the screaming pain in her shoulders that she could somewhat ignore if she stayed completely still.
Deserved to be wearing her clothes, now stained with her own waste, because nobody could hold on indefinitely.
Deserved the clawing hunger in her stomach and the need for water, even as her nose still stung from Blade’s earlier game.
Deserved whatever was coming next as well.
There was no lingering hope that she could withstand whatever torture was coming.
Not that there ever really had been any.
She was an intellectual, she didn't have the skills to compartmentalize or withstand pain.
She knew how to solve problems, look for mistakes and try to find solutions, and spend hours in a lab playing around with different formulas.
Not this.
Never this.
So, when the face in the farmhouse window disappeared, she didn't know whether to rejoice that Blade was no longer staring at her, something he’d spent most of the day doing, or despair because it likely meant he was coming out there to do … something awful to her.
How was she supposed to predict his behavior?
Predicting patterns in scientific equations was one thing, it was what she loved doing, what had first drawn her to create the drug, or at least the original version of it, in the first place.
But she knew nothing about the techniques used to break someone, not that Blade was going to have to work too hard when it came to breaking her.
Feeling like she was left hanging—and how she was able to make that joke, she had no idea—the seconds ticked by with an excruciating slowness, only to eventually reveal that she wasn't going to have to wait much longer to get another lesson in torture.
The front door to the farmhouse opened, and Blade came strolling out. He had something in his hand, well, two things, the knife he seemed to love, and something else. Something that only became clear when he crossed the small clearing to the tree where he’d strung her up.
As soon as she realized what he was carrying, her heart stuttered in her chest.
Not having any knowledge of torture didn't make her stupid.
Her nose was still stinging from the water poured down it earlier, and whatever pain the water had caused would be nothing if he shook up that can of soda in his hand and held it to her nose. That would be excruciating.
Open your mouth and tell him what he wants to know.
Beg for mercy.
Ask him to understand that you didn't have a choice, you were dragged into this whole thing against your will.
Despite her internal screaming, all that came out of her mouth was a small whimper as Blade stopped a couple of feet away from her and grinned when he saw she was staring in horror at the can.
Just like he wanted her to.
That stupid grin remained on his face as he began to shake the can.
Another whimper bubbled out, and she kept ordering herself to say something, but for some reason fear seemed to have stolen her voice, and for the life of her—and she was very aware that it was quite literally a matter of life and death for her—she couldn’t make herself talk.
What was up with that?
Okay, she’d always been quiet, intellectual people could often be introverted, she got stuck in her head too much and understood equations better than people. But she’d never been so afraid that her words just got clogged inside her and couldn’t come out.
Stepping closer, he lifted the can, gave it one final shake, and Whitney did her best to brace herself for pain she was ill equipped to deal with.
But much like she couldn’t brace her body, strung up as she was, she couldn’t brace her mind either, and she wasn't prepared at all for the onslaught of agony that …
Never came.
Instead, she got a spray of shaken-up soda all over her chest as Blade lowered the can at the very last second. The sticky liquid against her chest with the cool wind blowing was definitely unpleasant, but she knew she’d just dodged one major bullet.
Why?
Why had he changed his mind? It had been clear in his eyes as he watched her while he shook it up that he wanted to hurt her and yet he’d pulled back at the very last moment.
Why had he been watching her from the window most of the day? It wasn't like he’d tried to hide it from her, he had to know she could see him. Did he watch because he enjoyed seeing her suffer, knowing she was at his mercy, or for some other reason?
Taking a step away from her, for a moment, she would have sworn there was surprise in Blade’s dark eyes, almost like he hadn't made a conscious decision not to shoot those bubbles right up her nose, his body had just acted without his brain being part of the decision-making. But the look passed quickly, and she assumed she’d just imagined it, her mind conjuring up what it wanted to see.
Was that part of torturing someone? Making them long for an ally, even if the only one around was their tormentor?
“Been a nice day, sunny,” Blade said, his tone smooth and conversational, no indication in it at all that he was her captor and she was his helpless little victim. “Weather forecast says we’re getting some snow tonight, though. Think you can handle a little snow, darlin’?”
Again, the way he said the word darling rankled.
He already had her strung up, why did he have to mock her on top of it?
Wasn't it enough that he could do anything he wanted to her?
Was it necessary to humiliate her as well?
If he knew the whole truth about what had happened, would he really be okay with everything he was doing to her?
Whitney badly wanted to say he wouldn't, but she knew better than anyone else what had been done to him and the rest of the test subjects.
Their ability to access their consciences had been disrupted, and their emotions deadened.
Not removed, both were still there, they knew right from wrong and they could feel guilt and remorse, and they could still feel the full range of emotions, but the drugs accentuated the anger and minimized everything else.
“Too bad it’s not summer, long hot days out here in the sun would really suck. Then again, I’ve always preferred the cold to the heat,” Blade continued to talk as he spun the handle of his knife between his fingers.
Hot or cold, with the modifications the drugs had done to his system, he could withstand both much better than she could.
“Maybe throw in a nice summer storm, love that smell after rain.”
“Petrichor,” she blurted out without conscious thought. Her brain was full of random facts, and she was prone to spouting them at random times because she just didn't do well in social settings and got nervous.
Eyebrows rising, obviously surprised by her suddenly talking, Whitney found her cheeks heating. She’d gotten her voice back it seemed, but she’d said something stupid that wasn't at all necessary right now.
“The name of the smell after rain,” she added somewhat lamely.
“So she does talk,” Blade said as he straightened and took a step toward her.
Her stomach chose that particular moment to grumble loudly.
She hadn't just not eaten today because she’d been hanging from a tree, she hadn't eaten much for days, not since she made the decision to go to Cassandra Charleston and try to warn the guys of what was coming.
Whenever she got too anxious, she got a ball of nausea sitting heavily in her stomach, and it stole her appetite.
“Hungry are we, darlin’?” Blade smirked, like he took pleasure in every little bit of discomfort she suffered. Which he probably did.
“Borborygmi,” she murmured softly.
“What?”
“Borborygmi,” she repeated. “That’s the name for the sound your stomach makes when it rumbles.”
Her useless fact was just that, useless, but for some reason Blade’s calm veneer snapped, and a snarl marred his otherwise handsome features as he moved quicker than she’d ever seen anyone move, until he was standing right in front of her, the blade of his knife pressed against her neck.
“You mocking me, darlin’? Because I don’t think that’s a wise move. No more games, you're not going to make a fool out of me any longer. It’s time to start screaming, darlin’.”