Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
In the dark, everything is far more confusing. I need light. If only I could see, then maybe I could get back to the present reality.
Puzzle pieces are just out of reach.
I want to grasp them all in my hand so I can finish this damn puzzle.
Footsteps approach and I fixate on the sound, craning my head toward the sound. Then I hear a knob twist. Light streaks in from what appears to be a doorway. My eyes, having grown used to the dark, slam shut from the sudden assault.
“How’s my patient doing?” a man says, voice soft and soothing like what a doctor who cares might sound like. “I’ll turn on a lamp so the light doesn’t hurt your eyes. Sometimes it can be harsh after you first wake up from it.”
He doesn’t tell me what “it” is. Instead, he clicks on a lamp. It takes a minute for me to be able to crack open my eyes to inspect my surroundings.
I’m in some sort of exam room on a bed, ankles and wrists strapped down. I pull against them, testing their strength, and wince in pain.
“What he gave you will make you feel like you have a terrible hangover,” the man says, chuckling. “It’s not my first choice, but it’s Doc Junior’s favorite. How are you feeling?”
The man, wearing a white lab coat and carrying an iPad, turns to face me. I immediately recognize his freckly face and auburn hair and beard. His smile is gentle and polite, despite keeping me trapped like a rodent to be probed and studied.
“Dr. Portman?” I croak out, voice dry and brittle. “Let me go.”
If he’s put off by the betrayal in my voice, he doesn’t let on. He looks down at his tablet and taps the screen a few times. Then he takes a picture of me with it. I hiss at him like a rabid raccoon who’s been forced into the sunlight.
“Call me Seth. We’re friends now,” he says as he sets the iPad down. “I’m going to examine you now, Romy. Try to relax.”
Is he insane?
He has me cuffed to a freaking bed.
We are not friends.
His smooth fingertips stroke down my neck until he touches the hem of the crinkly hospital gown I’m wearing. “Interesting. You have a lot of bruising here. Can I ask what happened?”
Caius happened.
They’re called hickeys.
“Fuck you,” I say instead, spitting at him.
My mouth is too dry, though, and he gets nothing but the sound of my spitting. Unfortunate. Now that I’m staring at this man from a lab rat’s point of view, I’m disgusted I was charmed by him and Doc Junior. I should have sensed the evil.
“What kind of medications are you on?” Seth asks, eyes flicking from my bruised neck to my face.
“I’m not on any,” I tell him, though I don’t want to. “Except whatever you people keep forcing on me.”
“Touché.” He chuckles. “What about birth control? Do you have the shot? Take the pill?”
I don’t want to tell him because I don’t know what the answer is supposed to be. He must sense my fear because he gently touches my shoulder.
“Romy,” he murmurs. “I need to make sure none of our studies interact with them. Be honest with me.”
With tears forming, I mutter, “No. I’m not on anything.”
“My intake form is pretty intense,” he admits, “so excuse me if it feels invasive. I can assure you, after we have the information on file, it won’t be so intrusive going forward.”
I whimper when he touches the back of my head, the pain making stars dance around me.
“I was told about this injury. Brick wall, eh? It may take some time, but I think you’ll be okay. If you feel like the pain worsens or if you experience any strange things like dizziness or nausea, let me know. We can always do a scan to make sure there’s no swelling.”
“I want to leave,” I rasp out. “Let me go.”
He continues his assessment as though I never spoke a word. I writhe against my restraints, to no avail.
“Any history of cancer?” Seth asks. “I’m sorry, but I need to check a few places for lumps.”
His cold, latex-gloved fingers touch my neck, feeling for anything usual. Once he’s satisfied, he moves his hands down.
“I can do this over the gown for this part, but not for the next part. I’m sorry.”
I tense as his hands begin pressing over every inch of my breasts over my gown. Hot tears streak down my cheeks. I’m equal parts humiliated and violated, about to explode with fury. He moves down to my lower abdomen, pressing on my stomach, below my ribs, and then below my belly button.
“Good news, nothing strange thus far,” he says with a smile. “Sit tight. The next part won’t take long, but it may be uncomfortable.”