I close my eyes and try to breathe.
The collar is cold against my throat.
Just like Moore's.
At least I had one week…
Time passes. I don't know how much.
The light never changes. The cold never fades. The collar sits heavy on my neck, a constant reminder of what I am, what I'vealways been.
Property. Leverage. A thing to be used.
I thought being with Jace would be different. I thought being his meant something other than being owned.
Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't.
Either way, I'm here. Strapped down. Waiting.
And somewhere out there, Jace is making a choice.
I hope he chooses himself.
I hope he runs, disappears, finds somewhere Webb can't reach.
But I know he won't.
Because I wouldn't, if our positions were reversed.
Because that's what it means to belong to someone.
You don't get to be safe anymore.
You just get to be theirs.
The door opens.
I don't know how long it's been. An hour. Two. My arms have gone numb from being held above my head. My throat is rawfrom screaming earlier, before I realized no one was coming, no one could hear.
I expect Webb. Another round of cold smiles and clinical observations.
It's not Webb.
It's a woman. Tall, elegant, dressed in black that looks more like fashion than tactical gear. Her hair is silver-blonde, pulled back in a severe knot. Her face is ageless, beautiful in a way that feels dangerous.
She stops at the foot of the table and studies me like I'm an exhibit in a museum.
"So you're the one," she says. Her voice is soft, cultured, with an accent I can't place. "The asset who broke the Reaper."
I don't respond. I've learned that responding only gives them ammunition.
"I'm Helena Cross," she says. "Director of Design. I oversee psychological operations, information engineering, and..." She pauses, smiles. "Persuasion."
Design. Jagger Harrison's Ministry. The one that handles propaganda and mind games.
"Webb thinks he can fix Jace with reconditioning," she continues, circling the table slowly. "Crack open his skull, rewire thefaulty connections, make him compliant again." She stops by my head, looks down at me with something that might be pity. "He's wrong."
"Then why are you here?"
