CHAPTER EIGHT

D arkness.

Blinding light.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Noise.

Silence.

Then the cutting began.

Again.

Callan had lost all sense of time, but he knew at this point he’d been held captive for months by whatever medical facility had him. Where he was, he didn’t know. A few times, he’d sensed he was being moved, but during those moments, his physical senses were weakened.

Some days, he could barely think a clear thought and wondered if he was going insane. Then clarity would return, and they’d torture him, before he lost focus all over again.

It hadn’t been like this in the beginning.

When he’d first been taken, they had interrogated him. Just questions at first, threatening his friends and family if he didn’t answer. Then they had said they were going to harm the royals. It had messed with his mind to think he could be responsible for any harm that came to the Moretti family even as he knew they were powerful vampires. Yet, he wasn’t a small guy, but they’d stopped him in his tracks and here he was.

So how had they overpowered him?

Callan was strong, standing over six feet and three inches. He might be a boring accountant working at a desk most days, but he had a gym in his house and worked out regularly. His body was a temple and all that.

Now it was a fucking mess.

A science experiment.

The humans in white coats, and some in suits, had him connected to a machine with tubes in his arms, legs, and neck. They wanted to know about Callan’s race.

About vampires.

After a while, it became obvious they already knew a great deal and when he didn’t talk, they simply began taking a look themselves. With knives. Because he was a vampire, Callan simply healed, allowing them to cut right back in again—something they saw as a great benefit. There was no cleanup, and they got more samples to work with the next day.

So yeah, he had heard their chatter, and either they hadn’t cared, or they really did just see him as a caged animal and had forgotten he could speak English.

Assholes.

He hated them with every inch of his being. Given the chance, he would rip them all limb from limb. Just as they’d done to him.

Callan healed all right, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in pain. Being cut hurt a vampire, just as it did a human as far as he knew. In the early days he’d still had hope of escape, so had told them he could die if they cut into his heart. Now he wished he’d let them kill him unwittingly.

They obviously didn’t want him dead.

From time to time, he was intravenously fed blood, which kept him barely alive.

Every day, people came to take samples of blood, flesh, and whatever else they wanted. Then leave. There wasn’t an inch of his body they hadn’t studied in the most atrocious ways. Yes, even his cock.

Callan had wanted to scream when he’d hardened at the videos played to him, then been helpless as a woman jerked him off with a complete lack of emotion.

He’d lain prone listening as a team studied his semen sample at a nearby station. It was a total demoralization of him as a living being.

The lowest moment had been when they’d fed him and given him a room with gym equipment. Callan had believed they were rejuvenating him, to let him go. He’d eagerly drunk the blood, slept—though poorly—and worked out. Then one day, a week later, he found himself strapped to a steel table with tubes.

Again.

He’d barely been able to speak, but when he asked what happened, one lab assistant had shared they had been testing his strength and physical abilities.

Callan had tried to teleport out a million times, and each time failed. Why he couldn’t, he still didn’t know.

He didn’t know anything anymore.

But he had a lot of questions. Why had no one come for him? Why were they doing this? Did the world know about vampires outside this nightmare of his? Were there others like him here? Would they ever let him go?

Callan needed this nightmare to end. He’d lost all hope and was losing his mind.

Now he just wanted to die.