Page 47 of Nemesis

“Thank you.” I smile. Or at least, I think I do. “Now turn my music back on, please.”

“Where is she?” A new, deeper voice cuts in, punctuated by the bang of a door slamming open.

“Careful, she’s lost a lot of blood. She’s delirious.”

“I know you fuckers can hear me! If you lay a single hand on her, I’ll kill you myself!”

“Shhh,” I hiss at them all. Jesus, nobody respects the dying like they used to.

My arms and chest shiver through a crashing wave of coldness. Everything is sticky. Red.

But when I open my eyes again, someone new is standing directly in front of my chair. My gaze trails up a large body, up a grey beard, all the way up to a pair of emerald green eyes.

Eyes that have followed me in mirrors and photographs all throughout my life.

The man stares into me like he’s seen a phantom.

Then his hanging mouth closes to form one last word that follows me into sleep.

“Annika.”

“We should run the DNA test again, to be sure. This could be a ploy⁠—”

“I don’t need another test. I knew the second I saw her.”

“Sir, all due respect, we have to tread carefully here. What are the chances she just happened to drop into syndicate hands?”

Voices, loud and abrasive, draw me from sleep. I fight the tug, more than happy to snuggle back into the warm, soft…

What?

I groan, pain registering in a dull ache the moment consciousness settles over my mind. The gnawing soreness seems to come from every direction of my body, all at once.

I try to reach up and rub the crustiness from my eyes, but my fingers are immobilized, and my whole hand throbs as soon as I shift it.

The argument continues somewhere in the background, but I’m having trouble processing the words that fly through the air. I feel sluggish. Heavy. A rough swallow scratches down my dry throat.

Where the hell am I?

It takes a while before I manage to crack open my eyes, but the action seems to leave me more confused than ever. The room is strange. A thick, white duvet covers my lower body, the end of it brushing two wooden bed posts on either side of my feet. The walls are the same monotonous, cream color as the bedding, only broken up by an ugly, green abstract painting hanging right in front of me. The impersonal touches remind me of a hotel room I once stayed in while the company was touring on the East Coast. At the time, I was certain I’d never seen a room so beautiful, but right now, something about the brightness reflected on every pale surface feels innately suffocating.

“Boss,” someone interrupts the argument. Because the room isn’t empty.

Black clothing bathes in the bright mid-day sun, forming a series of large bodies lingering by the doorway. That can’t be right.

“What?” a voice snaps, laced with authority.

“She’s waking.”

She.

Meaning me.

My brain catches up just in time to lurch up, meeting the intimidating gazes of the large men who are already staring directly at me.

Not good, Octavia. Not fucking good. My heart starts beating faster, clearing away some of my body’s aches under the mask of adrenaline.

An older man steps out of the group. A dark beard covers his jaw, neatly trimmed and in the same inky hue as his short, wavy hair. I flinch back as he approaches my bed with slow, unsure steps. His green eyes look familiar, I think. The intensity of their blaze is impossible to avoid, complemented by his dark, severe features.