The words almost offend me, but the heat of his body makes me fold into him. “Maybe it can,” I offer quietly. “If you let it.”
He turns toward the ocean, the wind tugging at his dark hair. “You talk like someone who’s never been disappointed.”
I swallow. “And you talk like someone who has.” Then almost immediately remembering what happened I counter. “Oh! Also, my new and first friend was just making out with the boy I’ve been in love with for two years. So I think it’s fair to say I’ve been disappointed.”
That earns me a real smile—I can see it in his eyes as he turns back to me.
“You’re cute.”
He declares it in a way that makes it impossible for me to argue against.
So instead, I whisper, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me,” I say, relaxing my arms now.
“Can I ask you a question first?”
I nod, unsure what he could possibly want to know.
He takes a step, closing the space between us. “Have you really never kissed anyone before?”
He questions it with a hunger I’ve never felt before, and heat rushes to my cheeks.
Chapter 25
Aurelia
Present
Apparently I needed more training on druggings and hallucinations because I’ve spent my entire life training to be strong and resilient to endless methods of torture, but I can’t even raise my head in this hellhole.
You may want to be done talking but I don’t think that’ll stop them.
The words echo in my mind. I try to focus on the entrance and the man’s words. Whoever is coming down here is obviously someone I want to see, but my head feels like it weighs fifty pounds, and I don’t know how to fix it. I hate being unaware.
I’ve done research on the effects of all kinds of drugs, but the experience of being under them is very different. I can’t seem to move, but my mind still registers the space around me. It’s limited motor control paired with stripped-down cognitive function, and it’s unbearable.
The sound of heavy boots echoes across the concrete, and I use my strength to force my eyes open again. My vision is a bit blurred, but I can make out a buzzed head and broad shoulders that carry muscular arms with a clipboard in hand. The whitecoat and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose look wrong on him, like a costume that doesn’t quite fit. He’s more soldier than scientist, more predator than professional.
My stomach knots. I hate admitting when I’m intimidated, but even though I can’t make out his face, I know this man isn’t someone I want to be near.
He doesn’t look at me—thank god. He goes straight to the man chained to the wall across from me.
The doctor circles him slowly, jotting things down—ink scratches against paper, loud in the silence.
I try to force my head over, but I can’t see as much as I want to.
The chained man tries to lift his head, maybe to look at me or to say something to the doctor, but the doctor’s hand lashes out and clamps the back of his neck, forcing his chin to the floor. Skin reddens under the pressure of his fingers and I almost feel sorry for him.
“Zhalkiy,” the doctor spits, shoving his head lower before releasing him with a sneer.
Only after the chained man obeys and keeps his eyes down does the doctor’s gaze flick to me.
The silence stretches, my skin prickling under the weight of his study. He does the same circling inspection, which is slow and clinical. His pen scratches again. I force myself to be still, back straight, pretending I don’t care. Pretending I’m not a captive who can hardly move, strapped to two beams.
When he finishes his notes, he tucks the pen into the clipboard and finally—finally—looks at me.
