The words shattered something in me. Or rebuilt something. Hard to tell the difference when every nerve was firing, every trained response activating. I reached for him—to push away or pull closer, I didn't know—and he caught my hands.
"You're bleeding."
Was I? I looked down, saw red seeping through tactical gear. When had that happened? Everything was fragmenting, time going liquid.
"Nathan," I managed. "Nathan's here. He'll—"
"I know. Security is already handling it." Gabriel's thumb traced my cheek, wiping away tears. "He won't hurt you again, sweetheart. I promise."
"I don't understand." Truth. Simple, broken truth. "I don't understand anything."
"I know. And that's my fault." He studied my face like memorizing damage. "You're in shock. Conditioning conflicts,trauma responses, chemical cocktails Nathan's probably been feeding you. We need to stabilize you before—"
"I wanted to kill you." The words tumbled out, desperate. "Dreamed about it. Planned it. I was going to make you suffer for everything you did—"
"That's the programming talking." So calm. So clinical. But his hands shook slightly as he reached into his pocket. "Nathan's very good at what he does. Implanting false memories, creating narrative frameworks that redirect trauma. Makes retrieval easier if the asset believes they're escaping toward revenge rather than being herded back to custody."
"Stop." But the word had no force. I was dissolving, all the certainties I'd built washing away under his touch. "Please stop."
"I need to give you something to calm down." He pulled out a syringe, clear liquid catching light. "Just a mild sedative. You're going into shock, sweetheart. Your system can't handle this level of conditioning conflict."
I should have fought. Should have run. Should have done anything but sit there crying while he pressed the needle to my neck. But my body knew his hands, responded to his voice, trusted his clinical assessment even while my mind screamed warnings.
The injection burned cold. Within seconds, the world went softer at the edges. Not unconscious, just... muted. Like someone had turned down the volume on my panic.
"There we go." He helped me stand, supporting most of my weight. "Let's get you somewhere safe while this processes."
"Where—" But I knew where. Even through the chemical fog, I recognized the room he led me to. Regression therapy suite. The chair waiting like an old friend.
Or an old enemy.
"No." I tried to pull away but my muscles weren't responding properly. "Not the chair. Please, not—"
"Shh. It's just for stabilization. Your nervous system is overloaded, sweetheart. We need to bring you back to baseline before we can address the damage properly."
He was so gentle as he positioned me. So careful with my suddenly clumsy limbs. The restraints clicked into place—wrists, ankles, waist—and muscle memory took over. How many hours had I spent in chairs like this? How many times had Gabriel taken me apart in controlled environments, promising it was for my own good?
"Open." The pacifier gag appeared in front of my face. Pink silicon, because he'd always said I looked prettiest in pink.
I shook my head, some last vestige of resistance firing. But he just waited, patient as stone, until my jaw unlocked out of trained habit.
"Good girl." The praise hurt worse than pain as he secured the gag. "Such a good girl, even after everything."
The chair reclined. Speakers activated, playing the familiar lullaby that meant session beginning. My body responded instantly—muscles relaxing, breathing syncing to the rhythm, mind trying to find the floaty space where nothing hurt.
But I couldn't get there. Too much conflict. Too many contradictory truths batting around my skull. Nathan's face. Gabriel's hands. Love and hate and need and terror all tangled together.
"Look at me." Gabriel's voice cut through the music. "Focus on my voice. You're safe. You're home. Everything else is just confusion that we'll sort through together."
I tried to speak around the gag, words lost in silicon and spit. He understood anyway.
"Nathan Mire has been active for three years. Twenty-seven successful retrievals. The Institute pays him handsomely for assets returned in functional condition." His fingers combed through my hair as he spoke, familiar gesture that made mewant to purr and vomit simultaneously. "He specializes in the damaged ones. The ones who think they've escaped. Makes them trust him, even fall in love sometimes. Then delivers them back for reconditioning."
No. That wasn't right. Couldn't be right. Nathan who held me through nightmares. Nathan who let me set the pace. Nathan who marked my skin with promises of after.
But... how had he found me so easily? Why had he been so ready to believe? So willing to help hunt Gabriel without asking harder questions?
"He's very good at trauma bonding." Gabriel's voice stayed clinically soft. "Creates scenarios that mirror your conditioning but redirect the attachment. Makes you feel like he's saving you while actually leading you back to captivity."
