The wine slid down my throat, the red rich and velvety.
“So,” Dr. Henry said, setting down his glass. “Tell me about your research. Your preliminary reports were intriguing.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but dizziness washed over me. The room tilted slightly, and I gripped the edge of the table.
“Charlotte?”
“I’m fine,” I said, blinking hard. “Just tired, I think.”
Dr. Henry studied me, his blue eyes unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, Charlotte. I expected better.”
The words hit like a slap. “What?”
“You stopped taking your medication. You stopped uploading your data.” His voice was calm, his expressionunchanging. “Most concerning, you’ve allowed yourself to become distracted.”
Heat flooded my face as memories of Beck kneeling in the shower flitted through my head. “I haven’t been distracted. The research?—”
“Should have been completed by now.” He leaned forward, and for just a second, something predatory and ancient flickered in his eyes. His pupils seemed to elongate, his irises flashing an unnatural pale blue.
I blinked, and it was gone. Dr. Henry looked exactly as he always had, a suggestion of concern on his handsome face.
“I think you need some air,” he said, standing. “Let’s take a walk to clear your head.”
The suggestion settled over me like someone wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. Yes. A walkwouldbe good. Dr. Henry was right that I needed to clear my head.
I stood, and the room swayed. My thoughts spun…or maybe my head. Then Dr. Henry slid a hand under my elbow and guided me away from the table.
We moved through the restaurant, passing patrons engrossed in their meals and conversations. Lights danced in my vision. Swinging doors loomed, and then Dr. Henry and I stepped through them and into a bright kitchen where chefs worked at shiny silver stoves. A dishwasher looked up from a sink full of sudsy water but said nothing as we moved past him.
In some remote corner of my mind, a voice shouted that this was wrong. We shouldn’t be in the kitchen. But my tongue was thick and clunky in my mouth, any words of protest fading before they materialized.
Dr. Henry pushed open a service door, and cold air blasted my face. We stepped into a darkened alley where someone had pushed snow into dirty piles against the base of brick walls. A faint smell of garbage mixed with the scent of car exhaust.
I wasn’t wearing a coat. In the fog of my mind, I knew I should be cold. But it wasn’t important.
Dr. Henry pulled me to a stop and stepped behind me. He wrapped an arm around my stomach and tugged me against him, his body hard and cold at my back. He was nothing like Beck, who was big and warm. Beck would never hurt me.
Confusion swirled through my foggy thoughts. Dr. Henry had never touched me before. Not like this. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I grabbed his wrist, but my fingers wouldn’t work. They dragged over his sleeve as he tightened his grip. My arm fell limply against my side, my fingertips numb.
The numbness spread. Or maybe it had always been there, filling my limbs until I was too heavy to stand.
“Shhh,” Dr. Henry said in my ear. He held me up, his breath cold against my neck.
Wrong,the voice in my head whispered. How could his breath be colder than the air?
“You’re mine, Charlotte,” he said. “You’ve always been mine. Stop fighting.”
The words sank into me like stones splashing into water. My knees loosened, and my thoughts turned sluggish and sticky.
Mine. Always mine. Stop fighting.
Yes, I wasn’t supposed to fight. How could I have forgotten?
My head lolled. Something sharp grazed my neck. The alley swam before my eyes, dirty snow spreading across my vision. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked.
Stop fighting.
