4. Liath
LIATH
Ahand clamped around my upper arm, hard and sudden, fingers biting like a vise.
My breath punched out of me and the corridor tilted as I twisted on instinct, already fighting, already clawing for space.
I collided with a wall of solid muscle and crisp fabric.
Deargán.
He had stepped in close enough that there was no air between us, broad shoulders blocking the corridor, white coat stark against the dark walls.
His spicy masculine smell wrapped around my throat.
“It’s alright, Rua,” Deargán said, his voice infuriatingly calm as he held me in place.
Rua.
The name scraped at me and my panic sharpened into something feral. I twisted hard, nails digging into his wrist, and my voice tore out of my throat.
“My name is Liath,” I screamed, the sound cracking as it hit the corridor. “Liath Byrne. Get your fucking hands off me.”
The blond nurse moved fast at his shoulder, white uniform flashing in my peripheral vision. She raised something that glinted.
That fucking needle.
“No,” I choked, limbs thrashing, trying to wrench free, clawing for space that wasn’t there. “You can’t do this. No.”
But Deargán’s hold on me was unbreakable.
Her fingers squeezed my arm with professional strength. The sting came a heartbeat later, sharp and precise.
I screamed against the violation.
I fought it.
I fought with every ounce of spite and fear I had left, shoulders straining, ribs heaving, teeth clenched hard enough to ache, but the drug didn’t care about willpower. It slid through my veins like ice water and my limbs grew thick and slow.
My hand reached for his chest to shove him back and it stopped halfway, hovering uselessly, as if my own muscles had forgotten whose side they were on.
My body went numb, like it wasn’t mine anymore.
Deargán’s hands steadied around me as I sagged, one arm under my knees, the other firm at my back, and he lifted me into his arms like he’d done it a hundred times before, controlled and practiced, no strain, no hesitation.
I tried to pull away but my shoulders barely twitched.
My mind screamed, rage and terror battering against a closing door, but my body betrayed me.
I hated that my body melted into his hold, sank into the way he carried me, the angle of his arm, the pressure that held me in place without pain.
The worst part was the tiny, humiliating sense of relief that steadied my breathing.
He loomed over me.
Dark amber threaded through his brown eyes, almost gold where the corridor light caught them, almost black where the shadows deepened.
Fine concentration lines etched faintly across his strong forehead.
His cheekbones were sharp and deliberate beneath smooth skin, carving his face into something controlled and precise.
Up close there was no warmth in him at all. Only focus. Only intent.
“You fight beautifully,” he murmured.
My stomach rolled as my head lolled toward his chest. My cheek brushed his coat and I leaned into him for half a second too long.
Shame flared hot through the numbness as my vision started to narrow, the corridor lights smearing at the edges.
Deargán lowered his mouth near my ear, warm breath against my skin.
“You always do, Rua,” he said.
I am not Rua.
The thought screamed inside my skull, bright and frantic, while my tongue lay heavy in my mouth.
His thumb stroked my jaw once, slow and deliberate.
I hated the way it made me shiver.
I woke with a start, my breath stuck high in my chest.
I was in that same damn room.
High ceilings and muted gray light, the wrong smell baked into the sheets, the air too clean and too stale at once.
I pressed my palm to the mattress and forced my breathing to steady, slow in, slower out, like I could muscle my body back under control the way I did before exams.
“Don’t give them anything,” I whispered.
I smoothed my expression into something blank before I climbed out of bed and crept to the door.
This time the handle turned. It was unlocked.
I cracked it open.
An orderly was positioned outside, watching me, like he’d been standing there the whole time with his attention pinned to the latch.
His dark hair was slicked back too neatly from a high, damp-looking hairline, the kind of shine that suggested oil instead of care.
His forearms were wiry beneath rolled sleeves, the skin dusted with rough, uneven sunspots.
His nametag read O’Shea.
“Back inside, Rua,” he said.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t shift his weight. His gaze moved over me once, slow and assessing, and the look felt like hands where they didn’t belong.
“Or I can make you.” His hand rested near his belt where a collapsible baton hung.
My throat tightened and I retreated into the room, pulling the door until it clicked shut, careful not to slam it.
What now?
I turned back to the room, running my hands through my hair to push it back off my face.
My fingers stopped too soon.
My scalp and shoulders prickled with exposure, air touching places it shouldn’t.
I froze.
What the fuck.
My feet carried me without thinking into the en suite tucked off the corner of the room.
I flicked on the light and a warm amber glow sparked to life from the brass sconces mounted on either side of the mirror. The light wavered like a candle flame, throwing shadows along the gleaming black marble walls and floor.
Ornate ironwork framed the mirror, but it was all wrong. The glass itself was dull, slightly warped, like I was looking at myself through thick water.
It was shatterproof.
In the reflection, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. Her skin was pale, too pale, lips parted like she was about to speak but didn’t know the words. Her eyes were wide, wild, rimmed in shadows. And her long hair…
My long hair was gone.
What was left was shoulder length, hacked blunt like a punishment.
My breath caught, sharp and wet in my throat, as my shaking fingers reached for the jagged strands, pulling them forward like I could somehow rewind the damage. My heart hammered against my ribs, hollow and sick, as I tried to force sense into it.
It had been mine. Something I chose. Something no one had permission to touch.
And now it was gone.
A cold, violating sickness washed over me, the realization that someone’s hands had been all over me, remaking me into whatever sick image they wanted. Rage rose so fast behind the sickness that it made my vision shimmer at the edges.
I gripped the sink until my knuckles whitened, forcing myself not to cry, because crying meant breaking and breaking meant they’d won. I memorized the damage instead, the uneven ends, the way it sat wrong against my collarbones.
If they wanted to erase me, they would fail.
I ransacked the room.
There had to be something here. Some clue. Some truth. Something to prove I wasn’t Rua. That I was me.
I had to find it.
I yanked open the drawers. Inside were clothes, folded and neat. I pulled them all out, throwing them onto the floor. They were all my size.
A breath of bitter laughter scraped up my throat and died there.
Lots of girls wore the same size.
That proved nothing.
I found shoes in the closet and lifted one, turning it over in my hands.
The heel dipped slightly on the outer edge. Exactly where my weight always rolled.
My stomach dropped.
Everyone walks.
Everyone leans.
That isn’t proof.
I scanned the dresser. A hairbrush sat tucked beside a small cherry ChapStick.
I stared at the chestnut strands tangled in the bristles.
Same color. Same length. Same soft wave near the ends.
My scalp prickled.
That’s not mine.
That is not my hair.
I grabbed a fistful of my own shortened strands and held them up, comparing.
For one terrifying, breathless second, my mind slipped. Is this my brush? Had I always been here?
My hands started to shake. If all of this matched me… then what if the part that didn’t match… was me?
I dug my nails into my palm to shatter the thought.
No. No. This is staged. It has to be staged.
I am Liath.
I shoved back from the dresser with a cry. Something rattled behind it.
I dropped to my knees and ran my fingers along the baseboard until I found a loose panel. It resisted at first, then shifted with a soft scrape, my pulse jumping.
Behind it was a worn leather art folder.
My fingers curled around it and I eased it out, the leather warm against my palms, the corners softened by use.
Beneath the scent of dust and leather lingered the sharp note of paint and sweet almonds, stronger now.
Rua’s smell.
My synesthesia flared before I could clamp down on it, a melody rising in the back of my mind, tinkling and eerie, almost childlike, as if someone was playing a music box with a broken tooth.
The tune slipped half a key off at the end, wrong in a way that made my skin prickle.
My chest tightened and I clutched the folder, knuckles white, breath hitching as the sound curled around me, impossibly real.
For a long moment, I couldn’t move. I stayed there on my knees, with Rua’s scent in my lungs and her song in my head, bracing myself for whatever truth I was about to pull into the light.
I opened the folder.
Inside was a single pencil drawing on thick art paper so realistic it felt like he was looking back at me.
A young man’s face emerged from charcoal shadows, the lines sharp enough to cut. Shadowed eyes. A chiseled jaw. A dangerous mouth half hidden, the expression caught between restraint and promise.
My pulse shifted. The room went quiet in my head, like someone had closed a door on all the noise, and I leaned closer without meaning to. My fingers hovered before touching, a stupid hesitation like the paper might bite.
I traced the line of his jaw.
Warmth spread low in my stomach, unwelcome and immediate, and my throat tightened as if I’d swallowed something too big.
“Do I know you?” I whispered to him.
His eyes held mine from the paper, waiting, knowing, as if he’d been expecting my hand, my breath, my questions.
For the first time since waking here, I forgot Deargán.
I forgot Rua.
I forgot escape.
Looking at the sharp, unforgiving lines of his jaw, I realized this boy wasn’t a doctor or a captor playing games. He was a predator. And God help me, the darkest part of my mind wanted to know what he tasted like.