Michael
MICHAEL
was at a loss.
He’d always prided himself on having all the answers. On always knowing the right thing to say, the best way to win an argument. To talk someone around to his point of view.
It was what had made him an excellent lawyer. It was his negotiating prowess that had ensured that the sacrifice Gretchen and Daphne had made—and Harvey and himself, for that matter—had been lucrative for both their families.
After all, birthing a child, raising a child, knowing you would have to pass them back to a top-secret government sub-branch as soon as they hit adulthood … that needed to be adequately compensated.
And keeping scientifically sound records of their development from birth, well, that was really a full-time job and should be remunerated as such.
They’d lived a very lavish lifestyle thanks to Operation Stranger. And Gretchen had enjoyed the perks of all that extra income.
Until the reality of it all had blown up in her face … in all their faces.
With a sigh, stood, stretching. He looked around their luxurious space. Plush carpet that felt like he was walking on a cloud, a well-stocked bar. Large, overstuffed leather couch. A TV that filled one wall and had access to every streaming service imaginable.
Chef-prepared meals were delivered to them throughout the day, and the fridge was stocked with snacks as per their request. The bedroom was enormous, with a California King. The ensuite had a huge bathtub, and a massage shower with a steam function.
But it was still a goddamned prison. A gilded prison.
And his wife was falling apart at the seams.
poured himself another glass of scotch. Not bothering with the ice this time. He tossed it back, leaning against the bar. He should go and check on Gretchen. She’d been in the bath for too long. Her mental health was shot to pieces.
Fuck, his mental health was in tatters on the floor. But he was better at pretending than his wife.
With a heavy clink, he set his glass down, making his reluctant way towards the bedroom. Like all marriages, they’d had their ups and downs over the years. But they’d always been on the same page when it came to Jack.
Until it came time to uphold their end of the bargain. To return him to Baxter.
The experiment with Blaire and Jack had been sold to them as a way to test if raising hybrids in a human family would curb some of their more … monstrous tendencies. To make them more capable of blending into human society once their transition to immortality took place.
Baxter had been adamant that it was imperative that they spend time in the facility once their transition became obvious. They needed to be somewhere away from mortals during that time. ‘For their own protection,’ Baxter had informed them.
But then he’d watched Baxter preparing to parade his son in front of Fortis and his army. He’d watched as Baxter had barely batted an eye when one of his men shot at Daphne. Or when Jack had gone down with that bullet in his chest.
He rubbed at his own chest as he opened the bedroom door. Utter darkness greeted him. There were no windows in their fancy jail cell, and all the lights had been extinguished.
Anxiety churned in his gut as he reached for the light switch, then thought better of it at the last minute.
She’s just sleeping. It’s hard to keep night and day straight in this place, he told himself, feeling his way across the room.
“Shit,” he hissed, gripping at his throbbing shin. He’d sworn the bed was further away than that.
He had drunk half a bottle of scotch, though, so his spatial awareness was in the toilet.
Pressing his palms to the mattress, he felt his way around to his side of the bed, reaching for the lamp and using the dimmer switch to turn it on as low as possible.
She lay on top of the covers, on her back. Her body was ramrod straight.
“Gretch,” murmured, his chest tight. He climbed onto the bed, reaching a hand towards her. She looked so still … too still.
But she wouldn’t … would she?
His hand made contact with her shoulder.
She rolled away from him.
Relief flooded . He blew out a deep breath. Thank God she wasn’t … she hadn’t … but then the weight of everything that had made her this way bore down on him. He let his head fall onto his pillow.
“Any news?” Gretchen’s voice was scratchy. It was only to be expected when she’d spent the last few weeks sobbing and shouting at the door, begging for news on Jack, on Blaire. On Daphne.
With no response.
didn’t bother to answer. He knew his silence was answer enough. And she didn’t need words to make him feel her censure. He was the negotiator. He was the one who could talk them into … or out of … anything.
But his arguments fell on deaf ears.
He had no power in this place. And he had realized, much sooner than Gretchen, that now Baxter had what he wanted—control of Jack—there was no collateral they had that was worth bargaining with.
“I just … I just wish I knew …” Gretchen wheezed, and squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing back the tears as Gretchen dissolved into wracking, desperate sobs once more.
Turner was at a loss. And it was killing his wife.