Matt found me in the bar's basement the next afternoon, staring at nothing.
I'd come in early for my shift, but instead of heading upstairs to the inventory that needed counting, I'd descended the familiar stairs to the space where I'd tortured so many men. The drain was still there. The chair was still there. The tools were still organized on their pegboard, waiting for the next monster who deserved what they could do.
"Bunny?" Matt's voice was careful. He'd learned to be careful with me, the way you learned to be careful with a wounded animal that might bite. "What's going on?"
"I cracked his files." My voice came out flat. "Nathan's files. The encrypted ones on his laptop."
Matt didn't ask how. He'd stopped asking how I did things a long time ago. "What did you find?"
"Everything." I laughed, and the sound was wrong—too high, too brittle. "He's been tracking me since the beginning. Since before the Institute. He knew what Gabriel was doing to me, and he let it happen. He let me break so he could come in afterward and pick up the pieces."
"Jesus Christ." Matt leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable. "You're sure?"
"I read the files. The acquisition records. The retrieval protocol. The name of the handler who was assigned to bring me back after Gabriel abandoned me." I met his eyes. "Nathan Cross. He didn't save me, Matt. He collected me. Like a package that had been delivered to the wrong address."
The silence stretched between us. Matt had been a soldier once—he understood the weight of betrayal, the way it could shatter everything you thought you knew about yourself.
"What are you going to do?" he asked finally.
"I don't know yet." I stared at the drain in the floor, remembering all the blood that had washed down it. "Part of me wants to kill him. Part of me wants to pretend I never saw the files. Part of me wants to run so far he'll never find me."
"But you're not going to run."
"No." The word came out hard. "I'm done running."
Matt nodded slowly. "What do you need from me?"
"The name of someone who can analyze a pill. I found something in my vitamins—something that doesn't match the others. I think he's been dosing me."
"I know a guy." He pulled out his phone. "Ex-military, runs a private lab. Doesn't ask questions."
"Thank you." I stood, my legs steadier than they'd been in hours. "And Matt? Don't tell anyone about this. Not even the other staff."
"I figured." He pocketed his phone. "You want my advice?"
"Probably not."
"Don't let him know you know. Not yet. Not until you have a plan." His eyes were hard with the knowledge of someone who'd seen too much violence to be shocked by it anymore. "Men like that—men who've been playing a long game—they don't react well to losing control."
I thought about Nathan's hands on my throat during sex, the way his gentleness could shift to dominance in a heartbeat. Thought about the files on his laptop, the ledgers in his desk, the photograph of two brothers standing in front of a building where girls were unmade.
"I know," I said. "I'll be careful."
But careful wasn't what I was feeling. Careful wasn't what was burning in my veins like fire. What I was feeling was rage—cold and absolute and terrifying in its clarity. Nathan had made me into a weapon. Now I was going to aim that weapon at him.
That night, I initiated sex with a violence that bordered on assault.
Nathan had come home late—a meeting that ran long, he said, a client who needed extra convincing. I'd been waiting in the bedroom, wearing the lingerie he'd bought me last month, the black lace set that made him lose his mind. The smile on my face was perfect. The hunger in my eyes was real, even if it wasn't the kind he thought it was.
"There you are," he said, loosening his tie. "You look incredible."
"Shut up." I crossed the room and pushed him against the wall. "Don't talk. Just let me—"
I kissed him with teeth, my hands working his belt with frantic urgency. He made a sound of surprise against my mouth, but he didn't stop me. He never stopped me when I took control—another pattern I'd catalogued, another weakness I was learning to exploit.
"You're wound up tonight," he breathed, his hands finding my hips.
"I need you." The words were true in ways he'd never understand. I needed him vulnerable. Needed him off-balance. Needed him to believe that my passion was desire instead of the desperate attempt to reclaim something he'd stolen. "I need to feel you inside me. Now."
