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There’s an IV in my arm, sending something into my system—a sedative, if I had to guess. I’m already healing from the vicious attack in the barracks, but my whole body starts to ache as I gain awareness of where I am, what’s happening. I jerk my head around at a sound behind me, a strange scent, and I find a beta in a white lab coat standing at a metal table toward the rear of the room, beakers and test tubes scattered across it. It reminds me of Rook’s place in Pacific City.
Am I ever going to see that house again?
“Good morning, Mr. Petrov,” the man in the lab coat says over his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” I growl, my voice coming out hoarse. “Would prefer not to be tied up.”
The man chuckles. “Unfortunately it would be very unsafe to untie you at this point in time,” he says. He turns around, holding a clipboard in his hands. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to answer them honestly.”
“Why?”
“No point in playing hard to get when you’re here,” he shrugs. “You can answer my questions or not—it doesn’t really matter, just adds to the data I can collect.”
I scrutinize him, my brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Don’t exactly fit in with the cult types.”
He nods. “I work for what’s left of the ACB.”
“And you’re just telling me this? No strings attached?”
He laughs again, like we’re having a polite conversation prior to a routine doctor’s appointment. “It’s unlikely you’ll leave here with any of these memories intact, Mr. Petrov. So ask away.”
I don’t want him to see the way that makes me feel, but I can’t hide it when the heart monitor to my left ticks up a beat.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says.
“Pretty rich coming from the guy who has me strapped to a table with a needle in my arm.”
“I’m a scientist, not a sadist.”
“And yet, here we are.”
We both go silent, and I jerk once more at the cuffs and straps keeping me locked down to the table. It’s no use; whatever they have me dosed with, it’s cut my strength in half, and the beating certainly didn’t help.
“So…my questions,” he says, pulling a pen out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your lucidity?”
I frown. “I’m on drugs—“
“I’m aware.”
“Then you know I can’t really answer that.”
He huffs out another laugh. It’s getting pretty fucking obnoxious. “Just answer the question.”
I scowl. “Seven.”
“Good,” he says. “And your name?”
“You already know my name.”
“Yes, but this is for the survey.”
I clench my jaw. “Luka Petrov.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And you’re unmated?”
