“What’s happening?” says Parlance.
“Director.” Creed’s voice comes from the doorway. I didn’t see him arrive. Dark gear. Arms crossed. Calm, because he isn’t the one strapped to a cot with her perfume in his lungs. “Dr. Fell has managed this subject for five years. She understands his responses. I’d recommend giving her the room.”
“She—” My voice catches. “She’s not—”
The shift takes my mouth before I can force the rest out. My jaw won’t hold its shape. My tongue is too thick. The words I need are there—table, scalpel, years,shedid this—but they break apart before they reach the air.
Viktor watches me through the fractured glass.
I know what he sees.
Cuffs. Claws. Spiking monitors. A half-shifted wolf shredding the cot while the researcher stands calm on the other side.
Faith sees it too.
“You see?” she says to Viktor, quiet and almost sad. “The cognitive function degrades under stress. He can’t maintain speech with the shift active. This is what I was describing. Yoursuppression protocols are damaging the neural pathways I spent years calibrating.”
“What’s the solution?” Parlance is frowning.
“Give me five minutes with him. Behind the glass. Just to assess.”
“No!” The word comes out as a howl, but I can’t help it.
“Dr. Fell knows what she’s doing, Director,” Creed says. “If anyone knows how to handle this subject, it’s her.”
Viktor looks at me—cuffed, half-shifted, clawing at my own restraints, unable to form a sentence—and pulls in a breath.
“Fine,” he says. “If you have a way to fix this, I’ll give you five minutes.”
No.
Not inside.
Not where she can lower her voice and put her hands where the cameras won’t understand what they’re seeing.
The medic moves to the monitoring station. A guard guides Faith out of the observation area. I hear their footsteps in the hall outside. Then the containment door opens, and she steps into my cell.
They close the door.
She crosses the room and stops beside me.
Close enough to touch.
“Hello, 3-0-6-7-0.”
Bile rises up my throat. I’m panting.
“I’m getting you back.” Low. Not the voice for the room. The voice for the table. The one she used when it was just her, and the equipment, and me.
“No… No!” I’m fighting for control, but I doubt they can see it.
She smiles. It’s cold. A fingertip traces the restraint over my chest. As if she’s examining it. She’s not. She’s touching me; staking a claim.
A low growl builds deep in my chest.
“This facility can’t hold you,” she says. “That’s my work. Performing exactly as designed.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
