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My heart has ratcheted up again, fast enough to call the paramedics—if I had a phone. My mouth is suddenly dry, and oddly enough, I’m not as worried about myself as I am for Sylas.
I grab the biggest knife out of the drawer and ease into the corner as I ask myself what, exactly, I can do if someone bursts through the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cally
The eerie silence of the bugs becomes the backdrop for a much bigger and more ominous event unfolding outside. Boots pounding rhythmically against the ground grow louder by the second.
Panic courses through my veins as I remind myself I’m on a military base. Sylas mentioned these guys treated him better than his evil creators, but that doesn’t mean they’re all rainbows and butterflies.
I glance at the pitiful knife in my hand and immediately discard it. There’s no way I can defend myself against a bunch of armed soldiers pointing rifles at me. With resignation, I decide to stay put, anticipating either a bullhorn announcement or a cadre of green-clad soldiers forcing their way through the door. I don’t know where I find the presence of mind, but I swipe through Sylas’s lentil-message, wanting to leave no trace that he was here.
My mind briefly wanders to the possibility that Sylas betrayed me and gave away my position, but I swiftly dismiss it. He wouldn’t do that, not after what happened between us last night. Didn’t his eyes shine with affection? Didn’t I just decide he’s already become my boyfriend?
“Sylas?” The sound cuts through the air like a thunderclap. Maybe luck is on my side today—perhaps they don’t even know I’m here and just want to talk to him about something unrelated.
“Sylas, we’re doing a welfare check,” booms the voice from beyond. “The drone footage was fuzzy, but we believe there may have been a perimeter breach.”
My heart stutters in my chest as I wonder if I should call out to them or stay hidden. My fierce inner debate is interrupted by, “You have one minute to come out before we enter with guns drawn.”
Guns drawn? Fear jolts up my spine. No matter who they’re looking for or why they’re here, I’m in big trouble.
As uncertainty gnaws at me, thoughts swirl like ghosts in my mind. I definitely don’t want them barging through with guns blazing; there has to be another solution.
“Um? Hi? It’s just me here,” I stutter out before they mercilessly kick open the door and invade without giving me time for another word.
Five figures dressed head-to-toe in combat gear burst into the room with their guns pointed straight at me. Terror grips every fiber of my being, sending me into flight-or-fight mode. The words lost bowel and bladder control float through my mind.
Although it doesn’t happen, I can see where the expression comes from. Maybe my terrified bodily response is a good thing. It keeps my mind so focused on not having a bathroom accident that I forget for a split second that I might wind up in the brig for the next few years. That is, if these guys don’t kill me first.
“I’m Corporal Barton of the United States Army,” one of them states coldly. It seems we’re past formalities now—I’m trespassing, no doubt about it. The corporal commands me to get on my knees with my hands on top of my head.
Although I was the oppositional kid who never followed directions in school, I’ve never complied faster than when my knees hit the floor. Compliance might be the only way out of this alive.
Corporal Barton begins rapidly firing off questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want? Have I seen… “him” since arriving?
I don’t mind getting in trouble. It’s been a possibility since Sylas explained his antlers and hooves.
I answer all of Barton’s questions honestly, except for the ones about Sylas. I’m just not smart enough to know how to cover for him, so I stammer when he pointedly lifts the army-issued backpack leaning against the kitchen cabinets and asks, “Have you met the person who owns this?”
“Um?”
An exasperated sigh escapes Corporal Barton’s mouth as he closes his eyes briefly before shifting strategies.
“Do you own a dog?” He queries with what appears to be a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Tater?” It feels like a hot poker has pierced my heart. If they have Tater but don’t know where Sylas is, something awful might have happened to him. I need to come clean if it will get Sylas out of danger.
With the five rifles still trained on me, I tell them everything—everything except what transpired between us in that bed.
“Sir?” One of the soldiers kneels at the foot of the bed and points to the ropes.
A sudden silence blankets the room as several gasps escape from their lips. God help me—I’m going to be in a world of hurt for restraining one of their men. They’re going to think I’m as monstrous as those scientists who created the splicers.
“Miss Quinn,” Corporal Barton hesitates for an eternity before continuing. “Did someone… tie you up?”
My body may remain obediently kneeling with hands locked atop my head, but my voice rings loud and firm—no less powerful than if I were brandishing a gun myself.
