Page 45 of Dark Rebel’s Mystery (The Children Of The Gods #92)
45
KYRA
K yra kept mopping, moving away from cell number twelve, her knuckles white from gripping the handle. The wooden pole would snap from the pressure if she weren't careful.
She forced her fingers to loosen.
Someone important had just arrived. Even the demeanor of the guards shifted. Backs snapped straighter, hands quit fidgeting. All around, tension crackled through the air.
She focused on the soapy puddle by her feet, working the mop back and forth with feigned diligence and feebleness. Through the corner of her eye, she caught glimpses of a small entourage moving along the corridor.
One was the commander, but his stance was deferential in a way Kyra hadn't seen from him before.
A second figure stood out immediately. He wasn't dressed in standard fatigues like everyone else. Instead, he wore some kind of tailored dark coat, its collar high and stiff, with small silver pins glinting along one lapel. Two guards flanked him, each armed and wearing similarly dark attire without insignias. That alone was strange, but it wasn't what made Kyra's breath grow ragged with alarm. It was the man himself. Something about him made her skin prickle, and it wasn't his good looks or air of authority.
The commander sidled up to him and all but bowed his head. " Amadan farman, aghayeh doktor ," he said in a rushed tone. Kyra only caught fragments of what he said next, and she didn't fully understand what he was saying, but the context told her the commander was paying deep respect to the man he called Doctor.
The other responded in the same language she'd heard the guards speak before. He used several Farsi words that she could identify, like prisoners and schedule, but most of it was said in that unfamiliar dialect. It was harsher and guttural in places, pulling at the corners of her memory and stirring a sense of dread that made her palms sweat.
She hunched her shoulders, staying crouched over her mop. Her headscarf concealed her face, but they would see the fear in her eyes if they looked at her.
Just keep scrubbing. Don't look up. Don't twitch .
Still, curiosity warred with caution. Glancing up for a split second, she took in the doctor's face in profile. Sharp cheekbones, a slightly hooked nose, and lips curved in what appeared to be a permanent sneer.
He shifted a fraction, and she caught his eyes, dark-colored and intense. Something about those eyes lit a flare of recognition deep in her mind, but it balked at the memory as though a locked door slammed shut whenever she tried to glimpse behind it.
The commander answered with careful enunciation as if searching for the right words. "Yes… injections… tomorrow's procedure…" were a few terms Kyra recognized in Farsi. Then he slipped back into the other dialect, his tone hushed, as if fearful someone might overhear.
The man in the dark coat—the commander dressed as Doctor—clasped his hands behind his back as he surveyed the corridor. His gaze flicked from door to door, from guard to guard, as though assessing a laboratory setup. Kyra's lungs constricted at the clinical detachment that radiated from him.
She must have seen faces like his in the asylum, looming over her while she lay strapped to a bed like Twelve.
Kyra forced the thought away before it could paralyze her with fear.
She kept mopping, but she did it as unobtrusively as possible, making as little noise as possible. Yet despite her efforts, each pass of the wet rag squeaked across the floor. She willed her breath to steady and made her posture even more subservient.
"No mistakes this time," the doctor said in accented Farsi, and then lapsed into that unknown language again, issuing short commands that the commander responded to with hasty nods.
Stealing another sideways glance, she noticed that the doctor's entourage carried small black cases that could hold syringes, vials, or any number of instruments.
Her stomach lurched at the sight. He must be planning to begin his twisted transformation or experimentation on the new female prisoners that had arrived yesterday.
Why females, though?
If they wanted to create super soldiers, wouldn't it have been better to experiment on men?
Maybe it didn't work on males. Or perhaps they wanted women to use as spies. She knew better than most that women made better undercover operatives than men.
Kyra kept her gaze down, but her ears strained to pick up more words. The conversation drifted in and out, but she managed to glean that they wanted to watch the new arrivals for something, and then he said something followed by twelve.
A wave of nausea washed over her as old ghosts clamored in her mind. Had this so-called doctor been the one who had transformed her into what she'd become?
Suddenly, the corridor felt too narrow. The air too thick. She didn't dare stop mopping for fear of freezing in place, so she forced her arms to move—scrubbing, pushing, scrubbing, pushing—while her mind screamed for her to run.
As a guard stepped forward, delivering something to the commander, Kyra seized the chance to shuffle a few steps back, letting him pass between her and the doctor's group. She positioned herself near a wall, lowered her head, and continued her charade of cleaning the baseboards. If she could only stay out of their direct sight until they finished and moved on.
Moved on to what, though? Tormenting Twelve?
This doctor was conducting the same twisted experiment that had turned her into a near-immortal creature with preternatural strength and reflexes, healing far faster than any normal human.
Was he looking to refine the methods? Improve the results?
The entourage pivoted, preparing to continue down the corridor. The commander bent respectfully, gesturing for the doctor to go ahead. The man stepped forward, flanked by two guards, each with a firearm holstered at their hip.
A wave of relief touched Kyra—maybe he'd pass right by without noticing her.
But then the doctor paused, looking like a predator who had just sniffed prey, and his gaze swept over the hallway. Kyra bent over, wringing out the rag into the bucket of dirty mop water, trying to reinforce the perception of a lowly maid just doing her job.
She could practically feel his eyes skim over her, and her heart pounded so loudly she feared it would betray her.
He said something in that guttural dialect, an almost whispered question. The commander muttered a dismissive response in Farsi—perhaps clarifying that she was a nobody.
There was silence, a long pause. Kyra held her breath, every nerve lit, terrified that if he looked closer, if he saw her eyes, he'd recognize her.
After all, her eyes were very distinctive. Not many had gold flakes swirling around their irises.
She heard a faint snort, perhaps the doctor's reaction, before he resumed walking. The click of his polished shoes on the floor sent an ominous echo. The entourage continued forward, and the commander murmured quick apologies, promising everything would be ready. Kyra almost let herself breathe again.
Almost.
Then, the doctor stopped once more. She sensed the shift in the air as he turned back, looking over his shoulder. The need to look up and meet his eyes was overpowering, but she resisted, keeping her head down and scrubbing.
She felt his stare and could imagine his lips pressed together in a line of suspicion, his brow furrowed. Her pulse hammered so hard that her vision blurred at the edges.
Time felt suspended.
A second stretched into five, then ten. The hush in the corridor was deafening. She refused to look up, focusing on the swirl of dirty water around the rag she was dipping in the bucket. She concentrated on the beads of sweat forming along her temple, the dryness in her throat, and anything except meeting that gaze.
And then, mercifully, a single step sounded, followed by others, and they were walking away, their footsteps growing fainter as they headed around the corner.
Only when Kyra was sure they were gone did she slowly exhale.
She flexed her fingers, which had been clenched around the rag. She had to keep up the facade a little longer until the corridor was fully clear. Then she'd slip into the nearest supply closet and stay there until the monster left.