Page 26

A deep baritone cuts through the haze, snapping me back to awareness, and I register a man sitting across from me, hands folded in his lap. His eyes are an unusual shade of grey, almost colorless in the soft light of the room. Vaguely, I remember seeing him last night at dinner.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were looking right at me.”

I muster a lift of my shoulder.

“It’s unfortunate we’re having our first proper meeting under these circumstances.” He rests an elbow on the armrest, his square jaw framed by a well-manicured hand. The crisp navy of his suit is free of imperfections, each stitch a tailored work of art. “I’m Dr. Price.”

Another shrug.

“I’m here to help you, Novalee.”

“Are we dropping the formalities already?”

His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“Sixty seconds ago, you addressed me by my surname.”

“Is it important that I use your surname?”

“No, just an observation.”

Several beats pass.

I stare at him. He stares back.

“Are we going to sit in silence to pass the time?” he asks, leaning forward. “Or will you indulge me in a conversation?”

My lips press together.

“I don’t mind. Silence can be as telling as words.” His lips curve into something resembling a smile. “I’ve cleared my schedule for the night.”

The insinuation threatens to yank me into surrender. Oliver, Liam, the doctor—they hold all the power. If I don’t cooperate, I’ll be stuck here indefinitely. Still, I can’t bring myself to take the bait.

Dr. Price exhales through his nose, an enduring sort of amusement in his gaze. “Or we can play the silent game.” He dusts an imaginary speck from his knee. “You might win, for a while.”

With a sigh, I take in the room, from the cozy fireplace in the corner to the mullion windows facing the grounds. Astrid is gone, so I’m guessing she left upon his arrival.

I turn back to Dr. Price. “Is this session confidential?”

“Outside of the Brotherhood? Of course.”

A humorless laugh bursts free. “Of course.”

“You don’t trust the men in this tower. That much is obvious.”

“Perceptive,” I mutter.

“And yet, I imagine you’re perceptive as well.” Unfazed, he shifts toward the edge of his seat, fingers raking through his thick blond hair, trimmed short at the sides. “Tell me, Novalee, what do you think I’m here to talk about?”

The question sinks into the quiet, an invitation and a trap all at once. I hold my tongue, stubbornness and self-preservation fighting to win.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” he continues, his gratingly smooth voice pushing through the stillness. “Why don’t we start with last night?”

The room shrinks, walls closing in, as images tumble through my thoughts like shuffled film reels.