He turned back to me, wearing a winner's smile. "And the clients loved them. What was I supposed to do? Tell me, Viona—when a product takes off, what does the factory do? It doubles production. Right?"
Nausea climbed my throat. The woman in leather, limbless and hooded just a few steps away, made it worse. I tried not to look at her. I couldn't help it. From her build she was around twenty. I couldn't imagine the pain she'd lived through.
"You're—" I snarled at the doctor, "you're insane."
He rose and laughed. "Viona, I have to admit—you're more entertaining than the rest of your Organization's agents. I could argue with you for hours."
He leaned closer. "Especially when I see you losing control. That's when you get interesting."
I spat at him. He was still smiling as he took the handkerchief Patrick offered, wiping his face with care.
"I'll kill you myself," I hissed.
He folded the white cloth, pocketed it, then suddenly fisted a hand in my hair and wrenched my head toward the bodies. Pain twisted my face, but the worse pain was deeper. It was in my soul.
"I thought you had iron control," he whispered at my ear. "What's wrong now? Hurt your feelings?"
A lump clawed up my throat. I shut my eyes against the scene. He yanked harder until I opened them. This time he turned my head toward the hooded woman.
"We took her from a cabaret," he said. "Nineteen. She begged. A lot. But she was selling herself anyway, wasn't she? What's the difference?"
I shook my head, furious, but his grip held. How could one man be this deranged? This cruel? He'd stolen a woman's life and turned it into hell.
For what?
I couldn't do it. I couldn't take more. I couldn't do a damn thing—couldn't attack, couldn't defend her. I was buried up to my neck in their filth. I had to wait. I was so tired of waiting.
Something in me gave. My breath hitched; my eyes flooded.
"Bastard!" I screamed, voice breaking.
He let go. Tears soaked my face. My scream kept ripping out of me as I toppled onto my side with my hands chained behind me. Between screams, I gagged and threw up bitter yellow on the tile.
The doctor's smile went bright with victory as he motioned to Patrick to haul me up. My throat burned. My legs wouldn't hold me. At Patrick's nod, the guards lifted me off the cursed, freezing floor.
So I'd been right. This was my slaughterhouse. They'd carved up my soul, and now they were dragging the empty body out.
At the last second, I looked back at the girl on the table.
My fists knotted behind me.
If there was anything like a soul left in me, part of it died with Steven. And part of it was butchered today. There's nothing left now—just a body running on nothing but the thirst for revenge.