Footsteps approach. Light. Careful. Not the measured stride of someone walking toward a task. The cautious steps of someone approaching something that might bite.
I force my eyes open a crack.
The woman kneels beside me. The one with the scent. Dark hair pulled back. Brown eyes that don’t look at me the way Dr. Fell did, not like I’m a specimen or a problem to solve. She’s looking at me the way you look at something hurt. Like the hurt matters.
She reaches for my wrist.
Her fingers settle against the inside of it, finding the pulse point—same position, same two fingers—and my body braces. Jaw locked. Breath held. Waiting for what always follows.
But she just holds.
Two fingers on my pulse. Counting.
Something stirs in my chest. Low. Below the sedation, below the panic, somewhere the drug hasn’t reached. A vibration—faint, shapeless—that moves toward her fingers. My wolf goes still. His awareness turns toward the place where her skin meets mine, listening to something I can’t hear.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Then the needle.
The sting should make the words meaningless. It should turn her into every white coat, every cool hand, every voice that said my number before the pain began.
But the apology stays.
No one apologizes. Not in the white room. Not when the restraints bite into skin, and the lights stay on all night. Not when the runes carved into your flesh burn like they’re still fresh.
Dr. Fell never said sorry.
She said, “Noted.”
She said, “Increase stimulus by twelve percent.”
This woman says sorry, and my body doesn’t know what to do with it.
Her hand moves to my forehead, brushing my hair back. The touch is gentle. Her fingers trail across my temple, and the vibration in my chest shifts, becomes warmer. For half a second, the fog thins. The room stops pressing. The weight on my lungs eases just enough that I pull in a full breath, and the breath comes easier than it should. I don’t know why.
I flinch anyway.
She pulls back immediately, and I lose sight of her. The room spins. I sense the wreckage, destroyed furniture, equipment strewn about.
I did that.
The memory surfaces sluggish and incomplete.
Waking up. Everything too close. The walls too tight. Panic clawing up my throat because I couldn’t remember how I got here, or why I was still alive when they usually kill the ones who fight back.
But not me.
I’m worth too much to them.
The thought lands with the same sick certainty it always does. They don’t keep me breathing because they’re merciful. They keep me breathing because someone decided I’m useful.
They’ll never let me go.
Doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop trying.
I remember the door ahead of me, promising freedom.
Freedom. Fuck… if only.
