Untouched The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,2

miles in every direction. A screeching sound filled his ears, and cracks like thunder went off one after another.

When it was all over, Aleksandr Timofeyevich Gavrikov was no more.

And Aleksandr flew off, taking the only thing of his father’s that he wanted.

The gift of flight.

Chapter 1

Sienna Nealon

Present Day

I awoke in a cold sweat. The red light of the clock told me it was close to five A.M., and my eyes searched the room around me, trying to acclimate after another nightmare. I worked to get my breathing under control as I sat up, walls spinning around me. The only other light came from the windows and the far distant lamps that lit the Directorate campus.

The Directorate. That’s where I was. A secret organization dedicated to policing humans with powers beyond the norm— metas, they were called. I still wasn’t sure I believed that the Directorate did what they claimed to, but I had very little evidence as yet of what their true intentions might be. All I knew was that so far they’d helped me when no one else had.

I still didn’t trust them.

My breathing returned to normal. I blinked my eyes a few times to adjust to the darkness and then I stood, letting my feet touch the soft, carpeted floor. The room smelled sterile, with just a hint of dust from what I assumed was the reconstruction it had undergone. I looked back through the glass, which was flawless, having been replaced only a couple days ago. Hard to believe it was such a short time.

Until a little over a week ago, I had been a prisoner in my own home for over ten years. Mom kept me from leaving with a simple threat: if I got out of line, was disobedient in some way, offended her or didn’t mind my manners, she locked me in a six-foot-tall metal sarcophagus. It certainly kept me from running. The drywall dust had a light and pleasant smell compared to the stench of being locked in that metal box for days at a time.

I had left my house in a rush, pursued by agents of the Directorate, who, at the time, I thought had ill intentions toward me. I’d met a guy named Reed who also helped me. Good looking, in a tall, dark and handsome kind of way, if you’re into that. I kind of am. Maybe. He helped me get away from the Directorate for a while, but we got attacked by a beast.

The beast’s name was Wolfe. He had lived for thousands of years, had killed countless people before we crossed paths, and after we tangled, he became obsessed with me. Everyone tells me I 'm strong. Wolfe was stronger. So much stronger that it wasn’t even a contest. He manhandled me, humiliated me, bent me, broke me, cut through a dozen or more armed Directorate guards, and left me in a bloody heap more than once.

I shook away the thought of Wolfe as I padded, barefoot, into the bathroom. I felt the cool night air against my skin. I was wearing only a bra and panties, less than I had ever worn to bed in my life, but there was a reason for it beyond simple tactile pleasure.

When I squared off against Wolfe for the last time, it was because he had held the entire city of Minneapolis hostage, leaving a trail of dead bodies until I came out of hiding and faced him. The Directorate higher-ups, Old Man Winter, his gal Friday Ariadne, and even one of the agents, Zack (he’s a cutie, that one) begged me not to go up against Wolfe again. They urged me to wait until their highly trained team of metas, M-Squad, returned from a mission so they could handle it. But people were dying, and Wolfe seemed unstoppable. Since all he wanted was me, I went to give him what he wanted.

Meta powers are twofold. One, they have enhanced strength, speed, dexterity—attributes far above a normal human’s. I can lift heavy objects, run faster and farther, leap fences, and essentially do stuff that makes everyone but Superman look pathetic. I was reminded of this again as I went to take a drink of water after washing my hands and I accidentally burst the bottle, soaking the bathroom floor, the sink, and myself.

I shouldn’t think about Wolfe while I’m taking a drink. Or handling anything delicate, come to think of it. But these days, it’s hard not to think about him