Chapter Thirty-Two #2
“Pair-bond trials, they called them dyads. Controlled pairs were matched as closely as possible for genetic markers. They wanted to see what kind of bond they could create under stress.”
Kiera scoffs, “That’s one way to say torture.”
Reyes doesn’t bother denying it. “Stressors included isolation, pain, deprivation, intermittent reward,” she says flatly. “The usual tools. But the variable they cared about most was choice. Given a chance to save themselves or their dyad, what would a subject do?”
My jaw clenches. “And if they chose wrong?”
“Depends on who you ask,” she says. “The investors would say the subject failed. The lead scientists would say the pair wasn’t viable.”
“And you?” Kiera asks.
“I would say…” Reyes hesitates, “We broke another child in the name of science.”
“This matches what Evelyn said,” Kiera mutters.
I keep my focus on Reyes. “How many boys before me?” I ask. My voice comes out quiet, edged. Her eyes flick to mine.
“Sterling…” Cam warns under his breath.
“How many?” I repeat.
Reyes licks her lips. “Officially? Three. Unofficially… more. Some never made it to the logs. They were cut during preliminary screening.”
“And what happened to them?”
“Some were reassigned to other projects. Some were… terminated.” Her voice lacks any emotion, as if these kids were specimens rather than human beings.
Kiera’s hand finds my knee under the table and squeezes hard enough to hurt. I let the pain root me. “And me?” I ask. “Where do I sit on that list?”
Reyes swallows. “You were a dyad candidate before Wade removed Kiera from the program. You arrived after a fatality. They brought you in as the Subject’s replacement before the files were fully updated.”
The new information sits heavily on my chest. “So I was never 012-B; I was the stand-in.”
“You became 012-B."
Kiera’s thumb is still digging into my knee. I cover her hand with mine. “You kept watching us after we left. Why? The program should’ve cut its losses when Wade took me home.”
“The program doesn’t like losing assets,” Reyes says.
“Wade took you out of the Nesting House, but he didn’t take you out of the data set.
He didn’t remove you to keep you safe. There were complications.
You were the only dyad that showed long-term stability.
They wanted to see what happened when you were separated from your pairs. ”
“We weren’t exactly neighbors with them.”
“No,” Reyes agrees. “But the bond markers persisted on your scans. That alone was enough to keep you on the grid.”
My skin crawls. “Scans taken where?”
“School physicals. ER visits. Routine checkups,” she clarifies. “Anyone tied into the Cicada network could access them.”
Kiera laughs, a sharp, broken sound. “So every time I thought I was getting away from Wade, from them, you were all still reading my charts like a weather report.”
“We didn’t control Wade; half the time, he was the one trying to control us. He needed you to be domesticated before he could sign the final transfer. We needed you to be reactive enough to study. It was a constant negotiation.”
“Over my body,” Kiera says. “Over his.” She nods at me. “Over whoever they decided to chain to me.”
“Yes,” Reyes says simply. “Over you.”
Cam clears his throat. “The relays,” he says. “The route Evelyn’s reports took. Who was she sending them to?”
Reyes’s shoulders slump the tiniest bit. She knows she’s bleeding information now; there’s no putting it back.
“Angelina Wraith,” she says. “Sterling’s mother. She runs the central node. Your mother reported to her. So did I.” That’s new. My mom is alive somewhere.
“Location?” Cam presses.
“Last I knew...not here. You burned one Nesting House. There are others.”
Of course, there are. Why stop at one termite mound when you can infest a continent? “How many kids,” Kiera demands, voice lethally low, “are still in beds like those? Sedated. Silent. Waiting for someone to decide if they’re a success or a failure?” Reyes doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.
Kiera stands. Too fast. The room wobbles around her. I’m on my feet with her, hand on her elbow, before she tips. “Sit,” I murmur.
“I can’t,” she says through her teeth. “If I sit, I’ll start thinking about them instead of the ones upstairs, and I’ll tear this place apart.
” Her hands are shaking. I turn her slightly, putting my body between her and Reyes, between her and the door, between her and the urge to run until the mountains run out.
“We start with the ones we can reach,” I say quietly. “These kids. This house. This program head. One thing at a time.”
She stares at me, eyes dark and furious. “One thing at a time,” she repeats. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” I say. “But it’s possible.”
Behind us, Cam snaps his laptop shut. “I’ve got enough to start tracking,” he tells Reyes. “If we have more questions, you will answer them.”
Reyes nods once. “I will.”
“Not because we trust you,” I add, looking over my shoulder.
“Because you owe it to them.” I jerk my chin toward the kids’ room.
“And all the ones we haven’t met yet.” She doesn’t argue.
Kiera’s breathing has evened out a little, but the color still hasn’t returned to her cheeks.
The pain is still there, coiled low in her body like a separate animal.
“We’re done for tonight,” I say. “Cam, get Reyes back to the room and double the restraints. She twitches wrong, you call me.” He nods.
“I don’t need…” Kiera starts.
“You need to lie down,” I say. “You promised me thirty minutes with Evelyn. You already broke that. I’m not letting you break yourself just to win an argument.”
She glares at me, but it’s missing heat. “Bossy,” she mutters.
“Obsessive,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
I steer her toward the thin mattress we’ve claimed in the corner. She sits because her legs won’t let her stand. I kneel in front of her, ignoring the way my shoulder protests the movement.
“Tomorrow,” I keep my voice low so the others can’t hear, “we start planning the next extraction. But tonight…” I rest my hands on her knees, feeling the tremor. “Tonight you breathe. You let your body remember it’s not a weapon. It’s a living thing that gets a say.”
“You realize you sound like a therapist and not a hitman right now?” Her mouth twists into a small smile.
“I sound like a man who watched you almost collapse on the staircase and doesn’t want to see what happens if you keep pretending you‘re made of steel,” I say.
She looks at me for a long time. Then, slowly, she nods. “Fine,” she says. “One night.”
“One night and you get formally checked out,” I agree. “Then we go back to being monsters.”
She huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh.
“Deal.” I stay there a second longer, knees aching, shoulder burning, fingers curling around the ridge of her kneecaps like an anchor.
The program can debate fate versus design all it wants.
Right here, right now, the only design that matters is this: We’re alive.
We’re together. And someone, somewhere, is going to pay for making that a question.