Pain explodes across my lips and cheeks.
I taste blood where the adhesive tore skin.
My eyes water, but I clamp my jaw shut. I won't give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out. I won't let him see how much it hurts.
He watches me, waiting for a reaction.
I give him nothing.
"Tough girl." He unscrews the cap on the water bottle. "Drink."
He holds it toward my mouth.
I turn my head away.
"I said drink."
"No."
The word comes out rough, my throat dry and cracked from hours without water. But I mean it. I don't know what's in that bottle. I don't know what they've put in it.
The scar-faced man laughs.
It's not a pleasant sound.
"Smart enough to be afraid of drugs." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something mildly interesting. "But stupid enough to refuse water after—what has it been? Eight hours? Ten?"
I don't answer.
I don't know how long I've been here. Time stopped meaning anything when they threw me in this room. All I know is that my throat burns, my head pounds, and every muscle in my body screams for relief.
But I won't drink.
"Your choice." He shrugs. "But you should know—if we wanted to drug you, we wouldn't need your cooperation. We'd just hold you down and force it into you."
The words send ice through my veins.
He's right.
If they wanted to drug me, they could. They could do anything they wanted. I'm tied to a chair with zip ties cutting into my wrists and no way to fight back.
But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for them.
"No," I say again.
He steps closer. The water bottle hovers inches from my face.
"Last chance."
I meet his eyes.
Empty. Flat. Nothing behind them.
"No."
He curses.
The word is ugly, vicious, spat at me like venom. He pulls the bottle back and screws the cap on with sharp, angry movements.
