A new voice cuts through it. “Father.”
The word rolls through my mind and my head tips weakly, eyes dragging toward where the voice came from.
I find the one who carried me here. He’s no longer just a shadow moving around, offering tools. He’s the son of the true monster in this room.
“The longer her blood oxidizes, the less valuable it becomes. We should collect what you need and send it to the lab.” His voice is measured and deliberate as he continues, “If today’s samples aren’t fresh enough, then it may be best to stop here. Let her heal enough to produce more for tomorrow.”
For tomorrow.
The words carve into my chest.
His father stills in my peripheral vision, seeming to be caught between his hunger for more and the voice of reason. His jaw ticks until a vicious sneer is turned on me.
“I should wring you dry,” he mutters, voice rough with lingering fury. His hand twitches at his side, like he aches to strike again, to prove he can. But then he exhales through his teeth, sharp and impatient.
“Fine,” he snaps, not looking at me now but at the tray of gleaming tools. “But know this,” his gaze flicks back to me, wild and fevered, “tomorrow, we begin again. I’ll make sure you beg for the end you’ll never get.”
The man’s fury simmers, boiling at the edges of his control. For a moment I think he’ll ignore his son and tear into me again just to prove he can, but then his lip curls, disgust twisting his mouth.
“Collect the samples,” he orders, clipped and dismissive. “I’ll send in the clean-up crew.”
His footsteps echo as he leaves, steady and unhurried. I hear the door open and close, signaling he’s gone.
My body collapses at that knowledge, knowing I don’t need to show bravado or strength to anyone else here. They’re just henchmen that mean nothing.
The table groans to life, and every shift as I’m tilted back jars through broken bones and split skin, making me hiss.
His son steps forward, the gold chain at his throat swaying as he steps closer and leans over me. His hands move around me with methodical precision as he works. He takes vials, presses them to the worst of my bleeding wounds, catching the flow. The sound of liquid filling glass is quiet to them, but loud to my own ears. He sets each one onto a waiting tray with a soft clink, lining them in perfect rows.
Not once does he look at my face.
When the last vial is placed, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he takes a fresh cloth, dips it in a bowl of water, and begins to wipe the mess from my skin. He’s careful and steady. The cloth slides across my cheek down my forearm, and then across damaged fingers.
The touch is simply a damp cloth against ruined skin, yet my body jolts as if I’ve been struck. Because it’s too careful for someone who should only see me as an experiment.
I turn my head, searching his face in an attempt to try to read the blank mask he wears. His jaw is rigid, but there is still a gentleness in his hands that betrays him. The cloth lingers a moment too long at the hollow of my throat before he finally stills. For the first time since coming over here, his gaze lifts to meet mine. The impact is sharp and unexpected.
His voice is softer than when he spoke with his father, barely a whisper, but my advanced hearing picks it up with ease. “Weare going to step out. The mist will come again.” A pause, his eyes steady on mine. “Remember that it won’t hurt you. It might actually help soothe you this time.”
The words rattle through me, confusing as they are soft.
A warning? A kindness? I can’t tell.
Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel any pity for me if I have another panic attack.
“Let’s go, Dante,” Elias’s voice cuts across the room, flat, impatient.
Dante.
The name slides through me, settling with the image of him.
Mist whispers from the vents above seconds later, curling like smoke through the room. My chest locks with the fear of it burning, but then eases as it just helps drag me toward unconsciousness.
My eyes drag shut without a fight from me and I wonder if the softness in Dante is real…perhaps something I can use to my advantage.
Or perhaps I’m just a fool for believing a monster’s son could ever offer me help.
CHAPTER 12
