Page 21 of Flawed Fate
He glances at the vial again, smiling that same, rare smile. “Having a direct source for the next phase of your treatment is ideal.”
A direct source. He means taking Declan’s blood and putting it into me.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My mind is scrambling, trying to reorganize, trying to fit this into the framework I’ve built around everything I’ve believed about what we’re doing here.
Test subjects volunteer. Nobody is forced. The research helps people. The sacrifices are worth it.
Declan didn’t volunteer. Declan is in a cell, about to have his blood drained for my benefit.
“You’ve done so well, Iris.” Dad’s voice is warm now in a way it almost never is. I’ve been starving for that warmth my entire life. “This wouldn’t be possible without you. Your willingness to participate, your courage? You’ve brought us closer to success than we’ve ever been. I’m proud of you.”
Proud. He’s proud of me.
I’ve imagined hearing those words so many times. Lying in bed after infusions, too wrung out to move, staring at the ceiling and telling myself it would all be worth it the day Dad looked at me and said he was proud. That single thought has carried me through every needle, every morning spent dizzy and aching and dreading the next infusion.
He’s proud of me. It should fill me up and make everything worth it.
It doesn’t.
It feels hollow. Like tapping on a wall you expected to be solid and hearing nothing but an empty echo.
He’s not proud of me. He’s proud of my blood work. He’s proud that his serum is finally doing what he designed it to do, and I happen to be the test subject it’s working in.
“When do we start?” I ask, because that’s what he wants to hear. What he doesn’t want to hear is the fear and the dread, so he doesn’t. It’s that easy for him.
“Tonight.” He’s already writing, planning. “I want to run the full diagnostic first, then we’ll prep the serum. I’ll need you rested and hydrated. There’s a cot in the recovery room. You should use it.”
He doesn’t say thank you or hug me. He doesn’t even look up when I stand and walk to the door.
I make it to the recovery room and close the door behind me, then sit on the edge of the cot. Declan’s flannel is still wrapped around me, carrying his scent and reminding me how, for some reason, I felt safer tied to his bed than I do now, across the hall from my dad.
All I can do is press my face into the collar and breathe deep and try very hard not to think about the man waiting to have his blood drawn. And how stupid I must’ve sounded when I told him we’re all here of our own free will.
9
DECLAN
I come backto consciousness slowly, like I’m surfacing after diving into deep, dark water. Water that’s strangely thick, heavy. It means I have to fight for every inch, but I do fight, because the fight has never mattered so much.
My body doesn’t feel like mine. It takes conscious effort to turn my head to the side. I try to move my arms and metal bites into my wrists. My ankles, too, when I manage to move my heavy legs an inch. Cold and rigid.
Shackles. I’m shackled to something flat and hard. An exam table, like in a hospital. Steel under my body, leather straps over the metal cuffs for good measure.
And there’s something around my neck.
It’s tight. Not enough to choke me, but pretty damn close. A band of metal that sits flush against my throat and hums with a faint vibration I can feel in my teeth. I reach for my wolf on instinct, the way I’ve done a thousand times, as natural as breathing… and I hit a wall.
He’s there. I can feel him pacing behind something I can’t see or name, but I can’t reach him. Can’t shift. Can’t even get close. Like this collar is designed to keep the animal locked away, and it’s working.
I’m basically human. I’m chained to a table in a room I don’t recognize, dressed in a hospital gown, with Moore’s drugs still in my blood and making my thoughts slow and sluggish when I’ve never needed them to sharpen more.
The room is small. Concrete walls, no windows. There’s a drain in the floor that somehow hits me harder than anything else about this situation. A single fluorescent tube overhead buzzes and flickers. The monitor mounted high on the wall to my left is dark. A camera is mounted in the corner, the red light steady.
My skin prickles. Everybody knows a red light means the camera is on. Someone is watching. By now, they know I’m awake.
I pull against the shackles. Testing, not panicking. The metal holds. The table doesn’t budge. Whatever they’ve bolted it to, it’s not coming up.
I need to think. Where am I? Moore’s facility, the one we were staking out. The last thing I remember is the fight. The dart in my leg. The second one in my shoulder. They brought me here.
