Page 14 of Vicious Kings
Holy shit.I actually died and went to the afterlife.
"Seveline?" My voice comes out as a croak, barely recognizable. "That you? Because if this is your idea of a welcome party, we need to talk about your hospitality."
No answer. Just the soft hum of something mechanical and the distant sound of voices speaking in hushed tones. The language is familiar but wrong, like listening to a conversation underwater.
I try to move and immediately realize three things.
One, I'm not dead, because dead people probably don't feel like their bones are made of broken glass.
Two, the injection site on my neck is still burning like a motherfucker, which means this isn't the afterlife unless Seveline has a really twisted sense of humor.
Three, I can't fucking move.
Panic slams into me along with a hefty dose of adrenaline. My arms won't respond. My legs might as well belong to someone else. Even my fingers refuse to so much as twitch when I tell them to. The only things that seem to work are my mouth and my eyes, and they're doing a bang-up job of darting around like trapped moths.
Restraints. I feel them now that the initial fog is clearing. Not rough rope or cold metal like we use in the compound's interrogation rooms, but something soft around my right wrist and ankle. Padded. Like whoever tied me up was worried about leaving marks on my precious omega skin.
The thought makes me want to vomit, but even my stomach muscles won't cooperate with that plan.
There's weight around my neck too. There's a band of something smooth and heavy that sits just above my collarbones.
A collar. They put a fucking collar on me like I'm someone's pet poodle.
If I could move, I'd be ripping this entire room apart with my bare hands. Since I can't, I settle for trying to set things on fire with the power of my rage alone. Sadly, pyrokinesis hasn't replaced my omega nature as my resonance since falling unconscious.
The heat in my belly chooses that moment to remind me it's still there, launching a wave of need so intense it makes my vision blur. But it's muted somehow, like someone threw a wet blanket over a bonfire. Still burning, but contained.
What the fuck did they do to me?
I focus on my fingers first. Mind over matter and all that bullshit. If I can just get one finger to move, maybe I can work my way up to a whole hand. Then an arm. Then I can strangle whoever's responsible for this with their own intestines.
Goals. It's important to have goals.
My index finger twitches. Victory. I'd pump my fist if I could, but baby steps. Another twitch. Then my middle finger joins the party. Soon I've got a whole hand doing a pathetic little dance against what feels like silk sheets.
Of course they are. The Fae can't have their breeding stock sleeping on anything as pedestrian ascotton.
My other hand starts responding, and I realize there's something attached to it. A tube. Clear liquid flows through it into a needle embedded in the crook of my arm. An IV. The bag hanging above me contains fluid that seems to shimmer with its own inner light, like someone liquified moonbeams and decided to pump them into my bloodstream.
Fuck. That.
It takes every ounce of concentration I have, but I manage to bend my elbow. The movement is jerky, uncoordinated, like a broken marionette. But it's enough. My fingers find the tape holding the needle in place and start picking at it.
"Come on, you piece of shit," I mutter, my voice still rough but getting stronger. "Work with me here."
The tape peels away with agonizing slowness. The needle slides out with a wet pop that makes my stomach turn. Clear fluid mixed with blood drips onto the pristine white sheets, and I feel a petty surge of satisfaction at ruining their perfect linens.
My legs are next. They feel like they're made of lead, but I manage to shift them toward the edge of the bed. The restraints, soft leather by the feel of them, give just enough for movement but not enough for escape. Whoever designed these knew what they were doing.
The room comes into better focus as I work. It's massive. Fucking enormous. I could fit my entire room back at the compound in here five times over and still have room left over for a dance floor. The walls are made of some kind of stone. Marble maybe, but not any marble that comes from Earth.
Everything about this room screams wealth, from the crystal chandelier that probably weighs more than I do to the furniture that looks like it was carved by master craftsmen who sold their souls in exchange for the skill.
A chandelier. In a fucking hospital room.
Even the air smells expensive, like vanilla and some exotic spice the Fae probably import from a distant moon.
I refuse to believe this is a standard medical facility. It has to be somewhere important. Somewhere that treats their patients like esteemed royalty. But also prisoners worthy of restraint. Which means this can only be where the Fae bring their omega pets.
