The first genuine closed-mouth smile spreads like a warm blanket over my shoulders.
“Now, can I ask you a question?” I set my clipboard down, mostly to break my gaze away from his smile.Stop staring.
He shrugs, and the slight movement carries a whiff of sandalwood, cedar, and cinnamon. “That depends on the question.”
“What was your first impression of this—place?”
His brow twitches, and a phantom smirk threatens his lips. “Do you want the truth? Without the filter?”
I nod.
“When I was being escorted to my room—I had a standoff of sorts in the hallway. Patient Eleven, I believe.”
“What happened?” Did hekillhim? Was there a fight?
A half smirk. “He stood there, blocking the way to my room. Then, proceeded to pull out his preciousmale parts—took a long piss on the floor in front of me, all while maintaining intense eye contact.”
The visual is vivid.
“Without blinking,” he adds.
I fight the grin widening on my face—but it’s inevitable. The thought of Dessin not breaking the uncomfortable eye contact—but also the obvious look of disgust that must have overtaken his expression.
“I mean… He had a good point.” I say.
“That he did. It was the welcome wagon I had expected.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling harder. “You had me nervous at the start of that story. I thought you were going to say you fought him—orkilledhim.”
“Why would I do that? It’s as you said, he had a good point.” But the smile fades as he looks away, a memory snagging his attention. “Besides, he escaped later that night to hang himself from the tower on the east wing.”
I lean back into my seat, clench my fists. “He—killed himself?”
A casual nod. “He had enough of the treatment, I suppose. The simulated drowning was his primary.” He flexes his fingers and rolls his wrists. “Either way, he wasn’t the first to free himself—and he won’t be the last.”
The simulated drowning.Chekiss.
How am I going to free them before they free themselves?
But another thought claws at my mind. “Haveyouever thought about—freeingyourself?” I brace myself for an answer I might not be ready for.
He lifts his chin, studying me, perhaps wondering if I’m ready for his answer as well. “I have not. I have far too much to live for.” And there’s a familiar glint in his gaze—a reckoning—a smugness—anI-know-something-you-don’tlook.
Is that sarcasm? I don’t dare ask him to elaborate. It’s in that gaze that I am certain he won’t tell me.
“Let’s play a game,” I say, leaning forward in my seat.
He reciprocates my movement, leaning in, his chains collecting at his ankles.
“You have my attention.”
“Good, because you still don’t have mine,” I challenge. At this, he releases a full-on grin. His teeth are pin straight and glossy white. Anddimples.“You tell me a secret, and I tell you one. No questions, only answers.”
Dessinconsiders this, eyes lowering in concentration.“The last woman I told a secret to ended up with a cracked spine in three different places.” His stare is lethal. He knows I know who he is talking about.“In fact,” he pauses, adjusting his wrists under the shackles.“I’m fairly certain she resides in the west wing. Also known as the rehabilitation ward. Humorous, don’t you think? Considering recovery most likely isn’t in her cards.”
“Wha––”
“Ah ah ah.” He stops me.“No questions. Only secrets. You’re breaking the rules already.”
