Chapter 11 Lana
LANA
Iblink against the light.
As my eyes adjust, I manage to take in the rest of the room.
White walls. One door on the far wall. Solid flooring—maybe linoleum?
White bedsheets that do very little to offer anything in the way of warmth or even much coverage.
I tuck the white sheets up under my armpits as I rub my fists against my eyes again, hoping it will bring back memories.
The warehouse. Crates. An exam table.
I shiver at the memory. Not just at the way they spread me open, but at the way I melted into those blue eyes.
I don’t even know that man. Aiden, his name was.
But there was something about him, or maybe about his voice, that had me following his commands easily.
I run my hand over my face again. I could check the door, but I’m sure it’s locked. I’m just glad that I have a bed this time. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s better than a cement floor.
As if on cue, the door handle dips, and the door cracks open.
I freeze, pulling the sheet higher against my chest. My heart hammers, waiting to see who’s there.
"Good, you're awake." Aiden's voice fills the small room as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He's carrying a tray, and the smell of food makes my stomach clench with hunger.
I sit up straighter. I’m not sure what position he expects me in. Should I kneel? Stand? The uncertainty makes my pulse race.
He sets the tray on a small table I hadn't noticed before, then turns to study me.
In the better lighting, I can see him more clearly.
Dark hair, strong jaw, those piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through me.
He's wearing dark pants and a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
He looks powerful in a way that makes my breath catch.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, gesturing to the tray.
I nod, then remember my training. "Yes, Sir."
He frowns slightly at that but doesn't correct me. Instead, he pulls a chair close to the bed and sits, his movements controlled and deliberate.
"I brought you some clothes, too." He nods toward a folded pile on the edge of the tray. "Nothing fancy, but it's better nothing."
"Thank you, Sir," I say automatically.
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching my face. "Do you remember your name yet?"
The question catches me off guard. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "One twenty-seven," I whisper.
He sighs, a sound of frustration that makes me tense. His jaw works as he seems to consider his next words carefully.
"That's not a name," he says finally. "That's a number they gave you to dehumanize you."
I stare at him, uncertain how to respond. I've been 127 for so long now that anything else feels like a distant dream, like trying to remember someone else's life.
"Look," he says, his voice softening slightly. "I know this is confusing. But you're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."
I almost laugh at that. Safe. What does that even mean anymore? I've heard those words before, whispered by other girls who believed them, who thought if they just behaved well enough, the pain would stop. They were always wrong.
"May I eat, Sir?" I ask instead of responding to his statement.
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe. But he nods and pushes the tray closer to me.
I look down at the tray, taking in the simple meal—a sandwich, apple, and what appears to be water in a plastic cup. Not a glass that could be broken. Not a metal cup that could be sharpened. They've thought of everything.
Just like the last place.
The sandwich looks plain—maybe turkey and cheese—but my stomach growls at the sight of it.
I reach for the sandwich, then hesitate, looking at Aiden. Even this simple act requires permission.
"Go ahead," he says, his voice gentler than before.
I take a small bite, savoring the taste of real food. It's nothing special, but after months of bland nutrition bars and protein shakes, it tastes like heaven.
"When you're done eating, I'd like to talk," Aiden says, watching me closely.
I nod, focusing on taking small, measured bites. I've learned that eating too quickly after being deprived can make you sick. The last thing I want is to vomit in front of him.
He waits patiently as I work my way through the food, eating every bite.
Once I drain the last of the water, he stands, lifting the tray. He opens the door and sets the tray in the hallway, then returns to where he was sitting.
"Do you remember anything about your life before?" he asks, settling back in the chair. His posture is relaxed, but I can feel the intensity of his focus on me.
Before. The word hangs in the air like smoke. There was a before, wasn't there? Fragments float through my mind—a coffee shop, maybe. The smell of vanilla candles. A cat with green eyes. But they feel like someone else's memories, faded photographs left too long in sunlight.
"I think so," I whisper, clutching the sheet tighter. "Sometimes I remember things, but they don't feel real anymore."
Aiden leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The movement brings him closer, and I fight the urge to shrink back against the wall behind the bed.
"What things do you remember?" he asks.
Memories flit through my mind, one after the other, but just as quickly, warning bells ring.
I shake my head. “I’m 127. That’s all I know, Sir.”
My heart sinks as disappointment clouds his features.
There’s a part of me that wants to tell him everything. But another part, a wiser part, knows that it’s not safe to trust anyone.
Aiden studies me. “I’m sure there’s more that you know.”
There is, so much more. But I’ve pushed those memories down deep.
I shake my head. “No, Sir. I’m 127. I’m happy to serve you however you desire.”
“Fuck,” he says, catching me off guard as he swears under his breath. The word is just loud enough for me to make out.
I swallow hard, hoping I haven’t angered him.
He stands, crossing his arms over his chest. “For the record, baby, I don’t want to do it this way. One more chance. Tell me your name.”
A frisson of fear goes through me. “One twenty-seven,” I say, focusing on my training.
Aiden blows out a long breath. “Okay, baby. Let’s go.”