Chapter 3
The First Session
The wake-up call came like a knife through velvet dreams.
That voice. That fucking synthetic sweetness piped through hidden speakers like audio glucose. I buried my face in the pillow—surprisingly luxurious for a prison—and considered suffocating myself just to spite them.
"Compliance with morning routine affects privileges for the day. You have five minutes to get up."
Privileges. Right. Like I was a toddler who needed to earn her iPad time.
I rolled over, staring at the ceiling where I imagined cameras watched my every move.
The collar sat heavy against my throat, a constant reminder that last night hadn't been a nightmare.
I was really here, in this pink purgatory, about to experience whatever twisted "research" the Mire Institute had planned.
"Fuck your morning routine," I muttered into the pastel void.
"Language, little one. That's your first warning of the day."
Of the day. Implying there would be multiple warnings. Implying there would be multiple days. The weight of that settled over me like a lead blanket.
"Four minutes remaining."
What happened if I didn't get up? Part of me wanted to find out, to test every boundary until something broke—preferably them, not me. But the smarter part, the part that had kept me alive through twenty-three years of bad decisions, whispered that I needed information before I started wars.
I sat up, the cotton nightgown riding up my thighs. Still no sign of my actual clothes. The room looked exactly the same in daylight—if this even was daylight. The pink walls seemed to glow with their own internal light source, creating a perpetual dawn that made my eyes ache.
"Three minutes remaining."
"I'm up, Jesus." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. "What now? Jumping jacks? Pledge of allegiance to the great god of fucked-up research?"
"Please proceed to the bathroom for morning hygiene. The door is now unlocked."
The bathroom door—which I'd nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to open last night—swung inward at my touch.
Inside was more pink and white, looking like a spa had mated with a pediatrician's office.
Toilet, sink, shower stall with frosted glass.
No mirrors except a small one above the sink, too high to break and use as a weapon. These people had thought of everything.
On the counter sat a pink toothbrush, toothpaste, and a folded towel. No razors. No tweezers. Nothing sharp or potentially dangerous. Because apparently I was the danger here, not the people who'd kidnapped me and put me in a collar.
"You have fifteen minutes for bathroom privileges. Please shower and brush your teeth."
"Please?" I laughed, the sound bouncing off tile. "How polite. Do I get a gold star if I remember to flush?"
Silence. Right. The voice only responded to direct questions or rule-breaking. I was talking to myself like a crazy person. Then again, maybe that was the point. Drive me crazy enough and I'd probably beg for human interaction, even from my captors.
The shower was hot, at least. Good water pressure. Expensive shampoo and body wash that smelled like vanilla and something floral. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, trying to wash off the feeling of being watched. The collar was waterproof, apparently. Of course it was.
When I emerged, my nightgown was gone. In its place, folded on the closed toilet lid: white cotton panties, a soft pink sundress that would hit mid-thigh, and nothing else. No bra. No shoes. No dignity.
"You've got to be kidding me." I held up the dress like it might bite. "This is what you want me to wear?"
"Clothing is selected based on behavioral assessments. Compliance earns expanded wardrobe options."
"So if I'm a good girl, I get big girl clothes?" The sarcasm dripped like water from my hair. "How fucking generous."
"Language. Second warning."
I considered refusing. Standing here naked and dripping until they came to dress me by force. But the bathroom was cold, and the dress was soft, and choosing my battles seemed smarter than fighting every single thing.
The dress fit perfectly. Of course it did.
They'd probably calculated my measurements from surveillance footage or some equally creepy method.
It was comfortable, I'd give them that. Soft cotton that moved with me, hitting just above my knees.
The kind of thing I might have worn voluntarily if it didn't represent everything wrong with this situation.
"Five minutes remaining for bathroom privileges."
I brushed my teeth with unnecessary violence, glaring at my reflection in the too-small mirror.
My hair was already starting to curl as it dried, going wild without product or tools to tame it.
Dark circles under green eyes that looked too big in my pale face.
The collar sat like a accusation against my throat, black leather and silver hardware that should have looked kinky but just looked like ownership.
The bathroom door clicked locked the second I stepped out.
"Wonderful. You're learning already. Breakfast will be delivered shortly. Please wait patiently."
Patiently. Like I had a choice. Like I could storm out of here and grab a McMuffin instead of waiting for whatever nutrition they'd calculated I needed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap in mockery of good behavior, and catalogued everything I could about my prison.
The carpet was thick enough to muffle footsteps.
The walls had no visible seams—probably soundproofed.
The air recycled through vents too small to crawl through, maintaining a perfect temperature that made it impossible to tell if it was summer or winter outside.
A soft chime, and another panel slid open. This time revealing a tray with actual food: scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a small cup with two pills.
"What are the pills?"
"Daily vitamins formulated for your specific nutritional needs."
"Right. Vitamins." I picked up one of the pills, examining it. Small, white, no markings. Could be vitamins. Could be sedatives. Could be birth control, given what I'd stupidly agreed to in that contract. "And if I don't take them?"
"All meals include required supplements. Refusal affects future meal privileges."
So take the mystery pills or starve. Cool. Great. Fantastic research ethics on display.
I ate the food—which was annoyingly good—and pocketed the pills when I thought the cameras couldn't see. Sleight of hand from my bartending days finally coming in useful.
"Meal finished. Please place the tray back in the compartment."
I complied, watching the panel slide shut with a soft click that sounded way too final.
"Excellent. Your morning session begins in ten minutes. Please sit on the bed and wait quietly."
"Or what?" I stood instead, pacing the room like a caged animal. Which I was. "What happens if I'm not quiet? If I don't sit? If I tell you to take your morning session and shove it up your—"
"Language. Final warning. Continued defiance will result in correction protocols."
Correction protocols. That sounded ominous enough to make me pause. But only pause. Not stop.
"You know what? Fuck your warnings. Fuck your protocols.
And fuck whoever's listening to this." I spun in a circle, addressing every corner of the room.
"You want to study me? Study this: I don't care how much money I took or what I signed.
You can't keep me here. This is kidnapping, false imprisonment, probably six other crimes I can't name. So open the fucking door before I—"
The lights went out.
Complete darkness. The kind of black that made me wonder if I'd suddenly gone blind. I froze, heart hammering, hands outstretched like a child playing Marco Polo.
"Correction protocol initiated. Please remain still."
"Turn the lights back on." My voice came out smaller than intended. "This isn't—"
A door opened. Not the bathroom. Somewhere else. Footsteps on carpet, measured and deliberate. Male. Large. Moving with the confidence of someone who could see in the dark.
"There's really no need for theatrics, Miss West."
That voice. Smooth as aged whiskey, cultured without being pretentious, with an undercurrent of amusement that made me want to punch something. Dr. Gabriel Mire, in the flesh.
"Turn. The. Lights. On." Each word came out through gritted teeth.
"I will. Once you've calmed down." He was closer now, maybe six feet away. I could smell him—expensive cologne, something woody and clean. Could hear the soft rustle of what sounded like a well-tailored suit. "Would you like to sit?"
"Would you like to go fuck yourself?"
He sighed. Actually sighed, like I was a disappointing student who'd failed a pop quiz. "I had hoped we could begin more cordially. Your psychological profile suggested intelligence beneath the defensive mechanisms."
"My psychological profile can—"
"Suggest someone who uses anger to mask fear, vulgarity to maintain distance, and rebellion to avoid acknowledging her own desires.
" He moved again, circling me in the dark.
"Tell me, Lilah—may I call you Lilah?—what frightens you more?
That you're here, or that part of you is curious about what comes next? "
"I'm not curious about shit except how fast I can get out of here."
"Hmm." The sound was noncommittal, almost thoughtful. "Would you like me to turn the lights on now?"
"Yes." The word came out before I could stop it, followed immediately by: "Please."
Fuck. When had I become someone who said please to her kidnapper?
The lights returned gradually, a slow bloom of pink that made me blink against the brightness. And there he was.