I thrashed, but they muscled me down onto my knees. Glass cracked under their boots as I forced my head up. Warm blood slid from my temple. Patrick stepped in through the second door, and my face knotted with hate. Rage shook through me.
My ragged breathing ricocheted off the walls. Guards closed in around us. Both doors were open, with Red Ward pouring through. Every exit was closed off.
They had me. Ashur was sedated—probably headed back to a cell. It was over.
Patrick's nose was broken, his face puffy, blue, and bloody. His eyes spat rage; his mouth still wore that awful smirk.
"Think it's that easy?" he said.
He bent close and glared into my eyes. His fingers fisted in the hair at my hairline; he jerked my head up. Pain wrung my features. His fist snapped across my cheek. My head whipped left. I clenched my teeth, swallowed the blood.
I lifted my chin again, met his furious stare, and bared a red grin. "So far… super easy."
His jaw twitched. He drove his fist into my stomach.
Air vanished. I folded, coughing blood onto the white floor. Head down, I rasped, "You punch like a little boy. Pathetic."
He drew back for another hit—
"Leave her," the doctor said, voice cold and rough, cutting through the lab.
I lifted my head slowly and watched him come toward us, a handkerchief pressed under his bleeding nose.
Blood trickled down the doctor's temple; the whites of his eyes had gone red. I knew that gleam in his eyes—the same cold, violent light he'd worn while sawing that girl's limbs off.
He stopped in front of me. Red speckles dotted his white clothes. I bared my teeth. "Looks like I ruined your outfit. Shame—you actually dressed up today."
For a beat, his jaw clenched. Then the sneer returned. "You thought cutting the power would pop his cell open?" He widened his eyes in mock surprise. "Besides—before you killed the lights, Ashur had already dozed off like a sweet little boy."
My breath caught in my chest. A tremor ran through me; my jaw locked until it ached. It was wrecked. All of it—ruined. His calm, predatory stare scraped at my soul.
In those filthy eyes I saw myself leather-bound and limbless.
For a heartbeat I wished one of those stray bullets had taken me out. I wished I'd died a long time ago. The last thing I wanted was to die by his hand. If I was lucky, he'd only kill me. But luck wasn't on offer. He had plans—that's why I was still alive.
I swallowed blood and spit. My breathing hitched. Was I scared? Maybe. I'd never feared dying—only not dying. Only suffering. After I saw that girl, I understood: sometimes death is mercy.
As if he'd read it all, he leaned in and caught my chin in his hand. I tried to jerk free, but the guards pinned my arms. He stared into my eyes with unholy delight, then said in a voice that chilled me, "Take her to my special room. I'm going to make a pretty doll out of her."
My spirit crumpled. Heat flashed through my bones—as if I'd caught fire from the inside. Fear threaded every cell.
I thrashed and screamed, "I'll kill you, son of a bitch!"
At Patrick's nod, the guards hauled me up and marched me toward the lab doors—one behind with a gun pressed to my spine, one clearing the way in front. My wounded leg dragged; my blood smeared the floor like pieces of my soul I couldn't take back.
I shook with terror. They were herding me to the slaughterhouse, and there was no way out. Four of them boxed me in. Fear pumped through my veins.
"Let me go!" I rasped, breath ragged.
My heart hammered, my mind stuck on the image of the leather-bound girl. Was I next—another of his "Lolita" dolls?