She knows we’d hunt her down.
They’re putting way too much energy into this. Who cares if the Doll ran off? This is probably what she wants– it’s a fucking cry for attention if I’ve ever seen one. The little bitch is probably playing us, waiting to see who bites.
Maybe we need to level up our game. The others are getting too soft on her, letting her forget her place.
I drop my phone onto the desk and fix my stare on the front of the lecture hall, the professor’s voice dissolving into static beneath the noise in my head.
I feel off-balance. Untethered.
I hate it.
The class drags by even slower than normal. When it finally ends, I shoulder my backpack and push out into the hallway, ignoring the chatter and the desperate, hungry looks from girls who don’t stand a chance.
Any of them would kill to take her place.
Instead, we’re stuck with a Doll who’s more trouble than she’s worth.
Outside, the clouds have thickened into an iron sheet, threatening snow. I breathe in the metallic air, but it does nothing to freeze the fire in my chest. If Ava doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll have to go hunting. And she won’t like what happens when we track her down.
CHAPTER 2
AVA
I wake up to…nothing.
No sunlight, no birds. No dull thump of bass from Ford’s Bluetooth speaker through the wall or the annoying sounds of Wes rummaging through the kitchen down the hall. Everything is just a weightless, floating blank. An endless void.
It takes a second– maybe longer– for me to realize I’m even awake at all. My thoughts feel sluggish. I have the vague, drifting sense of being underwater, every part of me suspended and foreign, like I’m in someone else’s body.
I blink once. Twice. On the third time, the world slides into focus.
I’m in a bed. It’s big and plush, with sheets so white they almost hurt to look at under the harsh fluorescent overhead lights. The air is crisp and clean, perfumed with something expensive and just shy of sterile. It reminds me of the fancy day spa Mom used to drag me to when she insisted we needed a girls’ day. It’s almost nice.
Almost.
My head throbs as the memory of how I got here comes rushing back in quick, ugly flashes– the drive from Corvus College, the underground garage, and Gideon’s half-assedapology as I was hauled out of the car. The cold stab of the needle and the last thing I saw before the blackness swallowed me whole: a woman’s lipstick-red smile, her monotone voice coiling in my ears.
‘Welcome to the Dollhouse.’
A long, rattling breath shakes out of me, fear tightening my throat like a noose. I try to sit up, but my limbs aren’t mine yet. They’re too heavy, tingling with pins and needles as sensation slowly returns to them. Being trapped in my own body while my mind spins out of control is a special kind of hell.
When I finally manage to prop myself up on my elbows, I take a quick inventory. No restraints, no obvious signs of injury. I’m dressed in a soft white t-shirt and matching pants that feel more like designer loungewear than prison-issue. Other than a small bruise on my inner elbow, I don’t appear to be any worse for the wear.
Then I move to swing my legs out of bed, and something tugs at my right ankle.
I look down to find a thin band of stainless steel fastened around it. Not jewelry, exactly… more like a slim, high-tech shackle that glints in the artificial light. I poke at it, try to slide a finger under the edge, but it’s fitted so snugly that it may as well be fused on.
Clawing the sheet away, I ease to my feet and quickly take stock of the rest of the room. There isn’t much. This place is a minimalist’s wet dream; a designer prison cell that would make Marie Kondo weep with envy.
A nightstand beside the bed holds nothing but a glass of water and a little paper cup containing three orange pills. They look like Advil– and my head is throbbing– but I’m not dumb enough to take chances on mystery medication. Nor the water, even though my throat is parched.
Across the room, there’s a table with a single chair positioned below a massive, framed picture– a photorealistic print of a summer landscape. It’s backlit, giving the appearance of actual light pouring in from somewhere behind it. The effect is clearly meant to pass as a window, and my pulse jumps when I realize there isn’t a singlerealwindow in the room.
Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make this room feel open, yet I’m completely sealed in.
Beyond a doorway is a small, clean bathroom– all open-concept, zero privacy. A stack of fluffy white towels rests on the counter beside a row of mini soaps and lotions. I open one and give it a sniff, half expecting it to be drugged or something, but it smells like lavender and eucalyptus, not certain doom. I re-cap it, glancing up at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. For a second, I hardly recognize myself.
My hair has been washed and dried, parted perfectly down the middle. There are no traces of makeup on my face, no dark circles under my eyes, no evidence of the exhaustion or terror I’m feeling. I look… healthy. Better than healthy. Positively radiant.
