Page 9

In which Arabella finds that she’s either considered a party trick or a lab rat.

Arabella…

A few hours earlier…

“What am I saying now?”

This fecking guy.

The guard’s been mouthing words at me for two hours now, grinning like this is a carny sideshow and I’m even more exciting than the world’s tallest man or the bear-faced girl.

When they first put me in this bedroom and chained me to the bed, I was terrified. I obediently repeated the first ten things he’d mouthed at me. Now? I’m just raging.

“What am I saying now?” The guard shakes the chain my ankle’s attached to, looking irritable.

Keep your temper, hold your tongue…

“I dinnae need to be looking at your ugly face to know that you’re saying, ‘Hey, I’m a minging arsehole!’ I’m not a fecking party trick.” I snap, moving as far away as the length of the chain will allow me. Ach, I have no sense of self-preservation.

His sneering grin turns into something darker and he stalks over to me, fists tightening. “ Dumme t?ve, dumb bitch!” The eejit pauses, head cocked. “Perfect! Though it is deaf and dumb, is it not?”

“Aye, that’s what they called it maybe in the 1950’s,” I manage a sarcastic bit of a laugh, which is probably ill-advised, since I’m the one in chains. “Ye canna even come up with a more creative insult? Put some effort into it.”

“D?v og stum t?ve, deaf and dumb bitch,” he snarls.

His hand is up, ready to hit me and I grab a pillow, like my feather-filled defense is going to stop him.

“Christoffer!” It’s nearly a shout, loud enough for me to hear and it’s from the Head Bastard in Charge, the one who threatened to shoot Roger in my classroom. He’s standing in the doorway, irritably gesturing at the guard - Christoffer, I’m guessing - who was about to punch me, fist still raised. He angrily leaves the room and Head Bastard in Charge stares at me, lips pursed.

“You should shut up,” he says. “They will just kill you sooner.”

Kill…?

“If ye feckers are gonna kill me anyway, I’m not shutting up.”

There’s the stupid bravado and defiance that got me through school when other kids would sneak up behind me and rip off my backpack, or yank at my hair.

He gives me a creepy, flat grin with all his teeth showing and leaves, shutting the door behind him. The wood shakes slightly and I suspect that means he’s locked it. The chain’s too short to reach the door anyway, so it’s not like it matters.

I’m not going to think about what he said. I canna let myself spiral. Drawing my legs up, I wrap my arms around them, rocking slightly. How long did it take yesterday until my students alerted the faculty that I was missing? I think it was yesterday. The head bastard plunged a needle into my arm after they threw me in the back of a maintenance van and I woke up on a helicopter flying to this oceanfront estate. I dinnae know how long it’s been but the sun’s angle looks like it’s early afternoon, around the time I was taken.

The only bright moment I’d had was vomiting everything I’d eaten in the last week all over the guard sitting next to me.

I’m trying not to blame Logan. He dinnae know. And there were three of them. But he said I was safe, damnit!

I think I’m in Norway. Or Denmark?

The little I saw of this monstrously huge house as they hustled me through it looked like a showroom for an insanely high-end version of IKEA, all the blond wood, neutral colors, and textiles. There’s a little bookcase in here and the books are all in a language that looks like Danish. Or Swedish. Everything smells of lavender, not the wild, sharp scent of lavender from home but more like a processed, distilled scent piped in because it’s supposed to be “relaxing.”

Bloody fecking hell.

My knowledge of Scandinavia consists mostly of liking their architecture and appreciating what I thought was a generally chill vibe. There’s none of that here. The compound we landed in is a nightmare of sharp, angular lines, all steel and glass. It sticks out from the beautiful forest surrounding it like a boil on my brother’s arse.

The few words I could make out from what they’ve said to each other, sounded like… Swedish, maybe? I canna tell the difference between the languages, though I remember watching a documentary that stated Norwegian and Swedish sound more similar, and Danish is more distinct from the others.

This is of absolutely no help here in giving me a clue about where they’ve taken me, and I never saw a sign that gave me any indication of where we landed.

This bedroom is blandly decorated in neutral colors meant to be soothing, but it’s the mild nature of it that’s scaring me. Bad things shouldn’t happen in beige, restful places like this. But that man just told me I’m going to die and there’s an unassuming white vase filled with unassuming pale flowers on the bedside table and the disconnect is too much and it makes me feel insane.

My ability to read lips isn’t going to be any advantage here. My kidnappers correctly guessed that was how I’d picked up on their colleague’s plans to murder Logan.

Logan fecking MacTavish.

The whirlwind of death that swept through my life in the last forty-eight hours. Logan MacTavish, a giant of a man with hazel eyes and a feral grin. I saved his life and then he saved mine right back.

Of course, I wouldn’t be in this position if I’d just minded my own business. I’m thinking Logan wouldn’t have had the slightest problem with killing those two, with or without my help.

They took me for a reason, but I have no idea what it is. No one has questioned me. They just threw me in here and chained me up. Do they think I know Logan? Like, we’re close friends and he would come to rescue me, like he did outside my building?

I dinnae see that happening.

The chain thuds against the pale wood floor as I limp toward the windows. Maybe if I somehow manage to get this shackle off my ankle, I could climb out? The view is spectacular; this must be the front of the house. It’s facing the ocean and if I squint, I can see a tiny, rocky island with a lighthouse and then nothing but forest and beachfront on either side of the compound for as far as I can see.

When they were hauling me off the helicopter pad behind the house, I noticed the high rock wall surrounding the compound. Here in front, I see the wall ends with an enormous iron fence leading to the fancy marina. Three yachts are docked there, ranging in size and decadence from “I’m a rich bastard and this boat makes it obvious,” to “I’m the wealthiest son of a bitch on the planet and this yacht should make you feel like an ant I’m about to step on.”

The sun is setting as the door opens and two new guards come in, pushing some equipment. I’ve had a CT scan before, and that’s what this big white thing on wheels looks like. Three more people follow them, all in white coats. Two are women, who ignore me, conversing quietly with their heads bent close. The third one is a tall, skinny guy with the kind of fake professional smile most doctors seem to have.

“Miss Blair, is it? How are you today?” He’s almost shouting at me, speaking very slowly.

“I’m not doing well,” I say very deliberately and rather loud, just like he did. “I’ve been kidnapped and I’m chained to a bed.” I hold up my ankle as a visual aid. “I dinnae suppose you’d like to help me get out of here?”

He chuckles like I’d just said the cutest thing.

“We’re here to do some tests,” he continues. “It will be much easier on you if you cooperate.” Thanks to him shouting at me, I can hear that he’s speaking English with an American accent. Behind him, the two women are setting up the machine and pulling out…

Shite. Are those restraints?

“What kind of tests are ye planning on, Doc?” I’m keeping as far away from them as the chain will allow, but the two guards are already heading for me.

“Simple blood tests, nothing to get hysterical about,” he says, all his false affability is gone. “Just sit down and we’ll get started.”

I ponder my options. The guards are going to hold me down if I dinnae do it. But the thought of just letting these feckers take my blood… “Why are ye needing my blood? This canna be standard hostage protocol.”

He nods irritably and the guards are on me, dragging me over to an armchair and slamming me onto it. “Are you going to require the restraints?” He’s leaning close to me and his breath smells like garlic and cigarettes.

“Are ye gonna tell me why you’re taking my blood?”

In seconds, they’ve strapped my arms and legs to the chair, even though I’m thrashing wildly like a hooked trout. One of the women, mouth tight with disapproval, fastens a band around my arm and finds a vein with ruthless efficiency, filling several tubes with my blood. I count twelve vials before I get nauseous and look away.

The eejit doctor’s blathering questions at me. “Do you have a regular cycle?”

“Are ye serious right now?”

“Are you up to date on all your immunizations?” He’s checking off the blood vials as she hands them to him.

“Feck off.”

“Has anyone in your immediate family suffered heart or renal failure?”

“Feck right off and straight to hell.”

“It will be easier to have them pull her records,” he says to the woman taking my blood. She nods with a reproachful gaze at me, like I’m the problem here.

“One last thing, Miss Blair, and we’ll be done for now.”

For now?

The guards unstrap me and haul me toward the machine. I’m sweating and shaking, digging in my heels as they pull me closer.

The doctor makes a disgusted noise. “Her foot’s bleeding. Enough of this, just sedate her.”

“No!” I try to control my breath, my heart’s thundering in my chest. If they knock me out, they could do anything to me. Maybe they did something to me on the flight here. I canna let this happen. “I can do it. Just make these apes let go of me.”

The doctor’s even more annoyed when he realizes the chain I’m tethered to won’t reach the scanner. This gives me a moment as they search for the key to unlock it.

“A wee bit medieval for such a fancy place,” I stammer. “Are ye afraid of me, then? Thinking I’ll take ye all down?”

“Get on the scanning table and be quiet,” he snaps.

They strap me down again, my wrists, my chest and legs, and the worst, one around my head.

I can do this. This is nothing. I’ve done hard things before. I’m not gonna give them a single fecking whimper.

Sweat is pouring off me and I grit my teeth.

It’ll be over soon. Feck them. I’m not giving them shite.

It dinnae feel quick. It feels like forever, the rapping and knocking sounds inside the chamber are echoing through my poor ears with terrifying clarity. When the bed slides out with a jolt, a sob of relief escapes me.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” The doctor’s fake smile and loud, condescending tone is back.

“Ye have a shite bedside manner and I’m questioning the medical college that ever gave ye a degree.” I’m a little proud of myself for getting that out in a calm tone and not the scream that wants to explode from me. Still. If I ever get a chance to punch this bastard in the throat, I’m taking it.

A guard holds my ankle and one of the women examines my heel. She’s facing me so I can read her lips. “She’s popped two stitches on this cut on her heel. I’ll steristrip the wound closed for now.”

For now?

Then, they take their torture chamber and get out, leaving me shaking and sweating on the fluffy, beige duvet.