Page 23 of Incandescence

I paced barefooted across my bedroom as I glanced out the huge, bulletproof window that showcased the gorgeous, sunlit landscape outside. Though it was late afternoon, the leaves looked golden and burnished, the distant river glinting invitingly.

I glared. Even Mother Nature mocked me from outside my confinement, driving the point home that this place really wasn’t my home. But then, since I’m not considered human, I’ve never had a real home. I’ve been incarcerated in one way or the other for the entire seventeen years of my life.

I was a genetically modified asset, the lone survivor of my gene pool. I had to watch in horror as, one after the other, the people I’d considered family died thanks to their abnormal genetic makeup.

Homo sapiens weren’t meant to be interwoven with chiropterans.

What were they damn well thinking to genetically engineer a human and a bat?

If it wasn’t bad enough the scientists who’d created me had enjoyed taking endless blood samples and employing new ways to hurt me while filming the enhanced rate of my healing ability, they’d also enjoyed shaming me because of my mutated genes.

Thanks to those glory-seeking scientists, I was considered a monstrosity and a miracle all at the same time.

I was a miscreation, someone the general public would tear apart if they knew the truth.

It was yet another reason I was in this gilded tower in the middle of the wilderness, where my master used a helicopter as much as his fleet of cars to bring in supplies or to personally go into the city to greet his clients.

He didn’t always use his holo-quadrate to communicate with others, though I think he did as much as possible so he could keep an eye on me.

He knew I’d do anything to escape.

My leathery wings, compressed against my upper back under my dress, quivered with outrage. Or perhaps they needed release too? It was always a relief to unfold my appendages and stretch them out to their extraordinary size.

“Don’t worry,” I muttered, looking away from the views outside and the vague reflection of me in the glass pane that showcased my seriously long, dirty blonde hair and my startling blue eyes.

I instead peered down at the thick gold cuff just above my left ankle.

Not only did it reveal me as being an asset, it was also a tracking device that allowed my owner to know where I was at all times. “I have a plan.”

Opening my walk-in closet, I chose a pair of white runners and left them by my bedroom door.

Then adjusting the spaghetti straps of my copper-colored dress, which had been laid out on my bed earlier that morning while I was having a shower, I stalked toward the kitchenette at the other end of my bedroom.

It consisted of a single countertop with a toaster, a kettle and a bar fridge. I filled up the kettle and flicked it on to boil.

My mouth dried at what I was about to do, but compared to the torment I’d suffered in the lab, this would be child’s play. Even so, I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white.

Freedom was all I cared about, not even the love-hate relationship I had with my so-called master would stop me from what I wanted most.

In the twelve months I’d been here—he’d bought me for a staggering amount of money—I’d managed to get him to buy me everything but my freedom.

The kitchenette had been my biggest accomplishment.

My master could be ruthless and cold, but he was also kind at times and willing to at least consider my requests.

I snorted. Little wonder. I really was his most valuable asset, a plaything for him to amuse himself with.

A shiver skated down my spine. His obsession with me had been obvious from the start.

That it was reciprocated almost turned my stomach.

I wasn’t like him, I never would be. I was literally born to be alone.

I sensed that he was waiting for me to be eighteen, an adult, before he made a move on me. He was nothing if not a gentleman. My breath quickened, my nerve endings tingling as my belly compressed with stark need. I needed to get out of here before my next birthday.

Before I made the biggest mistake of my life.

The kettle steamed and whistled, then automatically turned off. I blew out a long, slow breath and looked at the clock. Though my master was due to arrive in the next half hour or so, he’d be here the moment the cuff’s internal, silent alarm was set off by my spiked blood pressure.

The device wrapped just above my ankle had multiple functions.

Tilting my left foot, I lifted the kettle with shaking hands, then poured the boiling water over my cuff and the skin around it.

I silently screamed as red-hot, lancing pain exploded through my nerve endings, then bubbled the flesh around my ankle.

Gritting my teeth, I carefully placed the kettle back onto its hob.

Security lights flicked on, no doubt also triggered thanks to the cuff’s silent alarm.

That the illumination only highlighted my self-harm made gorge rise in my throat.

I kept it down along with shrieks of agony as I shuffled over to one of the four dining chairs, pulling out the nearest one before collapsing into it.

My vision blurred as tears fell and my burning, blistering, pulsating flesh left me barely holding it together. I was rocking back and forth when the door was shoved open. That my master didn’t shut and lock it behind him showcased his urgency.

Despite my distress, wild hope surged inside me.

At least I didn’t need to fake my suffering. The scalding pain was insidious and vicious. I was beginning to feel faint, the room doing a slow spin around me.

“Bella, what the hell happened?”

That I was no longer a number barely crossed my mind as my master—Adam Segmund to anyone else—ran toward me. His hands were gentle as he crouched then lifted the hem of my dress to peer closely at my burn.

He looked up at me, his golden-brown eyes darkening almost to black with concern. “We need to get your ankle under cold water.”

I shook my head. “No. Not until after you take off my ankle cuff. I-It’s melting into my flesh!”

He didn’t hesitate. Loosening his maroon tie, he tucked his hand inside his navy jacket and white dress shirt, then pulled free the gold chain from around his neck. He held the carved gold medallion in his palm and said hoarsely, “I can only take your ankle cuff off for a short time.”

I nodded, then said meekly, “I know.”

He pushed the flat of his thumb against the square button on the medallion. A click sounded and my cuff loosened, taking with it some of my skin. I flinched and sucked in a strangled breath, but otherwise I couldn’t move.

Shock held me in place.

I’d worn the ankle cuff for seventeen years! It’d kept me enslaved to the scientists and their sponsors, kept me imprisoned by the simple fact I’d never get away thanks to the tracking device inside it.

Having it off was my one and only chance at freedom.

My master gently peeled away the ankle cuff and dropped it to the floor. The bottom of my leg was a burned and blistered mess, the redness as raw and angry as the feelings I’d kept buried deep inside for longer than I wanted to remember.

He winced, his styled dark hair glinting under the security lights. “Let me carry you to the shower, then I’ll apply some burn cream before I bring my medical team in here.”

I pushed away a sudden flare of guilt as I looked down at him and said, “Let’s not.”

He blinked, his long dark lashes sweeping low to cover his brilliant tawny stare that was clouded with doubt. A heartbeat later his lashes swept apart and his eyes sparked with clarity. “You intentionally hurt yourself.”

It wasn’t a question and I didn’t have time for lies. “I did.” He was already halfway to straightening to his six-foot-five height when I slammed my knee into his groin. He doubled over with a harsh oomph and I head-butted him with every bit of strength I had.

He grunted, his nose spurting blood.

My battered skull felt as though it had split in two, my vision blurring at the impact. But there was no more time to waste. He’d hate me for what I’d done and I’d gladly die before being captured and imprisoned once again.

Knocking the chair sideward as I twisted away, I jerked to my feet and ran for my life. I’d taken him by surprise today, but it’d never happen again. I’d once seen him knock three men unconscious after they’d tried to overpower and rob him.

There was no second chance for me.

I grabbed my runners and dived through the door, slamming it closed behind me before I activated its red lock button, the same one he’d pressed on me every day for the last twelve months.

I made out his muffled shout, the tormented break in his voice. I paused for a second, then pushed my feet into my white runners. He didn’t care about me, he only cared that he was losing his asset, a lab-bred species that was unlike anything else on Earth.

He collected unique, priceless things, and I was one of them.

My noxious Stockholm syndrome would eventually fade. I’d read all about it in one of my daily one hour screen sessions, where I crammed as much information into my head as possible.

Tugging off my dress, I tossed it aside. There was no way I could fly with fabric covering my wings. I’d have to make do with my black panties and my bra with its back strap that fitted perfectly under my wings.

They rippled open as I raced down the long, curving corridor where more bulletproof windows showcased mountain views to the left.

It’d taken me months to learn the window at the end of the corridor wasn’t anywhere near as strong thanks to my master—no, he wasn’t that anymore!

—having plans to extend his already monolithic tower.