I take a step forward, the chains clashing against each other, a violent, metallic scream.
“I’m waiting for him because when he finds you, Aris, he isn’t going to use a scalpel. He isn’t going to map your nerves or give you a local anaesthetic.” I lean over the marble desk, my face inches from his, my stitched lip curling into a snarl. “He’s going to turn you into thesame kind of red smear you’ve turned me into. And the best part? I’m going to be the one who hands him the cards.”
Aris looks at me, his eyes wide, a flicker of something that isn’t clinical—it’s a spark of genuine, dark arousal at my defiance. He opens his mouth to deliver another soul-crushing retort, but I don’t give him the chance.
I snap.
I don’t go for his face with my nails. I don’t try to kick him. I throw my entire body weight forward, lunging over the black marble. My hands, bound by that short, heavy iron chain, fly over his head.
I drop the loop of the chain directly over his throat.
I drop back, my feet hitting the Persian rug with a heavy thud, and I yank. Hard.
Aris’s head snaps back against the high leather back of his chair. The chain bites deep into his neck, burying itself in the soft tissue over his windpipe. His hands fly up, his fingers clawing at the iron links, his knuckles turning white as he tries to find purchase.
He makes a sound—a choked, guttural rattle that is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in ninety-six days.
“Who’s the specimen now, Doc?” I growl, my muscles screaming as I put every ounce of my hate into the pull. I’m standing behind him now, the chair tilted precariously on its back legs. I lean my weight into it, using the top of the chair as a lever to crush the air out of him.
His face is turning a dark, bruised purple. The veins in his forehead are bulging, and his eyes—those obsidian pits—are wide and bloodshot, staring up at the ceiling he thought he owned. He’s kicking the underside of thedesk, a frantic, rhythmic drumming of expensive leather shoes that sounds like a countdown.
“Look at me,” I hiss, leaning down so my lips are brushing his ear, the same way he did to me. “Tell me about the physiological response, Aris. Tell me about the heart rate. Tell me how it feels to realise your ‘miracle’ is the one who’s going to kill you.”
The record player skips, the classical music turning into a jagged, repetitive scratch. The room feels smaller, hotter, the scent of his sandalwood mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of the struggle.
I pull harder. My stitches are screaming, and I can feel a hot trickle of blood running down my chin as the wound on my lip reopens, but I don’t care. I want to see his eyes go dull. I want to feel the moment his heart stops trying to keep his ego alive.
Aris reaches back, his hand finding my hair, his grip violent and desperate. He yanks my head forward, trying to break my leverage, but I just dig my knees into the back of his chair and pull the chain until I hear the cartilage in his throat start to groan.
“Die,” I whisper, the word a prayer. “Just fucking die.”
The door doesn’t just open; it explodes inward.
The heavy oak slab slams against the wall with acrack that sounds like a gunshot. Miller is a blur of grey uniform and pure rage. He sees the scene—the chair tilted back, the “asset” with her chains wrapped around the Doctor’s throat, and Aris’s face the colour of a fresh bruise.
“You fucking bitch!” Miller roars.
He’s on me in two strides. He doesn’t try to peel my fingers back; he goes for the kill. He swings a heavy, gloved fist into the side of my head. The impact is a white-hot flash of light behind my eyes. My grip on the chain slackens for a split second, and that’s all Aris needs.
Aris gasps, a wet, rattling sound, as he lunges forward, slipping out from under the iron loop. He collapses onto the marble desk, clutching his throat, coughing up a spray of saliva and blood.
But Miller isn’t done. He grabs the centre of the chain between my wrists and yanks it upward. My arms are jerked over my head, lifting me nearly off my feet. He spins me around and drives his knee into my stomach.
The air leaves me in a pathetic, silent puff. I hit the floor hard, my head bouncing off the mahogany leg of the desk. The world is spinning, a dizzying carousel of dark wood and blood-red carpet.
“I told you!” Miller screams, his face looming over mine, distorted and sweating. “I told you she was a wild animal! I should have put a bullet in her weeks ago!”
He raises his boot, ready to cave my ribs in, his eyes blown wide with the kind of adrenaline that only comes from getting to hurt something that can’t fight back.
“Miller!”
The voice is weak, cracked, but it carries the weight of a death sentence.
We bothfreeze. Aris is standing up, leaning heavily on the desk. He looks like a wreck. His hair is disheveled, falling over his forehead, and his throat is a mess of angry, weeping red welts where the links bit in. He’s gasping for air, one hand pressed to his chest, but his eyes… God, his eyes are terrifying.
They aren’t filled with fear. They’re filled with a dark, shimmering ecstasy.
“Don’t. Touch. Her,” Aris wheezes, pointing a trembling finger at Miller.
