“I didn’t say you could knock me out and restrain me.”
“I’m sorry you feel like I betrayed your trust, dear girl, but I couldn’t have you knowing the location of my laboratory.”
“And you couldn’t have asked me to come willingly with my eyes closed?”
“I never said I was a patient man.” His lips pull into a grin. “This kind of work simply cannot wait. Not when you’ll only be here for two weeks.”
“Does that mean you plan to experiment on me for two weeks?”
“If only we had years,” he says. “If only I’d known what you were when we started working together. Just think how much more the humans would know about the fae by now.”
“This isn’t what I agreed to.”
“Which is why I had to do what I did. I do hope you can forgive me someday.” He lays a gentle hand on my arm. With the other, he retrieves his scalpel.
I shout as he drags the blade over the flesh of my forearm. Once he finishes the cut, I crane my neck to examine the wound, a red line of streaming blood. I bite back tears at the searing pain. My voice comes out strained, panicked. “I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt me.”
“Curious,” is all he says in response, brow wrinkled as he studies the wound. “You aren’t healing as quickly as a full-fae would.”
“I told you, I’m only one-quarter fae,” I hiss through my teeth. “I may not have rapid healing abilities at all, which means this experiment is pointless.”
“Not pointless.” His eyes glitter with excitement. “I’m desperate to know what kind of healing can be done. In fact...” He turns toward the counter and reaches for a stoppered vial on one of the shelves above it. As he brings it to me, I see it’s a deep red color.
“Is that blood?”
He nods, grinning with pride. “This one is from a brownie. I’d like to see if the blood will heal your wound. So far, fae blood has yet to show any positive effect on a human wound.”
“How many fae have you killed?”
He puts a hand to his heart. “I don’t kill fae, Miss Fairfield.”
My eyes rove from the vial of blood to the jar of hearts, then land on the two sets of wings. “But Mr. Osterman does. You simply experiment on the ones he captures.”
His expression darkens.
“Is that before or after he has his way with them?” Heat burns my core and I do nothing to extinguish it. I let it burn, radiating from my chest to my—
Mr. Meeks plunges the scalpel into my bicep, and I shout as I feel the blade dig into muscle. “Perhaps we won’t experiment with healing just yet. Perhaps we will experiment with pain tolerance first.” He pulls the bloody scalpel from my arm and slams it onto the tray along with the vial of blood. With a frown, he takes up a much larger knife.
I let my anger and pain burn away my fear, let it fuel the fire that rages down my arms.
Mr. Meeks moves to my other side, the tip of the knife pressed into the top of my shoulder. With a thrust, he cuts down my arm.
I scream, arching my back as the restraints hold me in place. My fire gathers hotter and hotter inside me, searing my wounds, flooding my hands.
Mr. Meeks takes a step away, eyes alight once again. “Now this is odd indeed. It seems you are beginning to heal—oh my.”
The cuffs grow hot around my wrists, burning me. I close my eyes against the pain and feel the metal begin to warp. Once I can take it no longer, I lift my wrists through the molten metal, the force of my raging fire fueling me. With my wrists free, I reach for the scalpel as Mr. Meeks darts at me with the knife. I whirl toward him, thrusting the blade with a violent swipe. I don’t see what happens through the blur of motion, but I feel the scalpel meet resistance. Mr. Meeks staggers back, dropping the knife and grasping his throat, ribbons of red streaming beneath his fingers.
I try not to focus on the gory sight, on the guilt that threatens to extinguish my fire. Instead, I focus on the pain of my open wounds, on the anger still burning inside me. I sit forward and press my hands over the ankle cuffs, vaguely noting that the burn marks on my wrists are beginning to heal. Once the cuffs reach a molten state, I pull my ankles from them, gasping at the pain from the blistering heat.
I push myself off the bed, landing with a cry as my ankles protest the motion. Hobbling toward the doorway, I’m suddenly aware of smoke filling my nostrils. I hazard a glance behind me to see the table linens have caught fire from the burning cuffs. Mr. Meeks still grasps his bleeding neck as he slides to the ground.
I feel another shock of guilt, but I burn it away, forcing myself out of the room, into the hall, and to the door on the other side. A soft whimper comes from within the room, and I throw the door open wide, letting the light from Mr. Meeks’ laboratory wash inside. As my eyes adjust to the new environment, I see a figure against the far wall, iron shackles hanging from the ceiling, pulling Lorelei’s arms overhead. A cloth gag is tied over her mouth.
I run to her and summon my rage, letting it burn through my palms as I place them over the cuffs. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt.”
She lets out a muffled cry as the metal burns hot around her wrists. With a deep breath, I wrap my hands around the molten cuff, stifling a cry as the heat blisters my palm. Once free, she drops to the ground. I pull her up, dragging her to her feet. We cross the room just as the laboratory grows brighter, the fire blazing over the table, flames licking toward the shelves. Knowing what kind of chemicals Mr. Meeks must have in there, it’s only a matter of time before the flames set off an explosion.
