The last memory I have of Zoe, we were walking on the beach. Dark, and well past midnight, we headed back to the house the Facility rented for its charges so we could spend a few days in Santa Monica and pretend we were normal kids.
My first night off the Facility, almost a year after my rescue, and men chased me, caught me, and now who knows what they’re going to do to me. They dragged Zoe and me into a van where I tried to fight and failed.
All I remember is blackness and waking up here.
As for here, there's no way to know where I am, but I do a quick scan of the room and notice one important thing.
I don't know what happened to Zoe.
“I bet you’re sorry.” The man makes a slow circuit around me. He pulls at his jaw and pauses at my back. Another shiver runs through me. “You’re older than our usual.”
Their usual?
Well, that answers one question.
These aren’t random men. They’re professional kidnappers. That’s not something that should give me hope, but it does. If they’re professionals, that means they’re working for a client. Clients don’t like damaged goods.
If I play this sick, twisted game right, I might make it out of here mostly intact.
Meek. Mild. Subdued.
Those are my weapons.
I draw my hands in front of me and clasp them loosely at my waist. I continue to stare at a spot of blood drying on the concrete.
Shelly moves again, coming to a stop in front of me. My focus shifts from the blood to his boots.
“Please, sir…” I inject maximum humility and submission into my voice. “May I have some water?”
Weakness fills my body and I can’t stop the tremors. My legs shake so hard I think I'm going to collapse. If I do, that’ll only encourage him to hit me again, or worse. Kick me with his steel-toed boots.
I’ve yet to scan my body, but from the sharp, stabbing pain in my side, my ribs are cracked. That must’ve happened while I was blacked out because I don’t remember that beating.
Shelly places his rough, calloused fingers on my chin. He yanks my head up until I'm forced to look at him, but I don’t look him in the eye.
I’m meek and subdued.
Surviving this rotten game.
My gaze rises to his lips, where I leave it.
I don't need to fake the tears falling down my cheeks. I’m scared for my life.
“She’s a pretty one, isn't she?” The other man scoots his chair back and stands.
I don’t like two of them on their feet. The room feels ten times smaller with them standing over me. That tremor turns into shivers of fear.
“She sure is,” Shelly says. “You sure we can’t have a little bit of fun with her first?”
Two
Griff
“How much longer, Doc? I’m not a fucking invalid.” My stony gaze, which never fails me, slides like water off a duck’s back when it comes to Doc Summers.
Her patient and unrelenting expression tells me not only is she willing to go toe to toe with me, but she already knows she’ll win. Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile and her eyes soften.
Her assistant moves around the room while we argue. He keeps his head down and continues stacking trays of medical instruments to take for sterilization. When I turn my attention to him, his gaze skitters away and the instruments on his tray clatter as he shakes.
Personally, I don’t get it. I’m a big guy, but I’m not scary. This guy acts like I’m going to squash him like a bug. Granted, I’ve raised my voice, but it’s a small room and I can’t help if my deep voice echoes in here. With a shake of my head, I dismiss him and turn my attention back to Doctor Skye Summers.
In a moment, she’ll deny me what I need.
We’ve been doing this dance for three days, three agonizing days which creep along at the pace of glaciers melting. Considering Moira’s somewhere out there, kidnapped and fighting for her life—with men doing God only knows what, I have to wonder what the fuck we’re doing sitting around.
“My leg is good.”
“You’re limping.” She points to my leg. “And you’re bleeding again.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“A flesh wound?” Her lips curve into a smile. “Is that what you’re calling that dime-sized hole in your leg?”
“It’s not a hole. You patched it up.”
“And sutured your vein back together. Come on, Griff, you need