Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

They leave me alone for several days to heal. I’m checked on every few hours by a doctor who refuses to look or speak to me properly, and I am forced to eat and drink as if they think I will try to kill myself that way, which lets me know how bad I truly look. On day five, I’ve had enough, so I slide out of bed, crumpling to the floor in pain. Gritting my teeth, I stand and bring my IV with me as I shuffle to the toilet, hating the weakness and the pain.

I cannot stand another day lying in that bed and pondering how much I hate life and how unfair everything is. I’m over it. I’m over the pity, and I’m just angry.

Flicking on the light, I shut the door behind me and take a steadying breath, then I turn to the LED lit mirror. I wince at my reflection. The lighting is harsh, but I look like death warmed over. Hanging my head, I close my eyes and pull in deep breaths, trying to pep myself up. I need to look on the positive side. I’ve had days to rest, no torture, and three meals a day, and the food could be worse.

It falls flat, and I look back at my reflection with tears in my eyes.

There are purple and black bags under them, my lips are chapped and raw, and my skin is pale and lifeless. My hair is greasy and hanging in unbrushed strings around my face. I can’t do anything about the wound or the pain or even about my situation right now, but this? This I can fix as much as I can. Maybe when I look like the old me, I’ll have more confidence too.

I turn to the walk-in shower cubicle. There isn’t a curtain, like they think I might hang myself with it—or them, I can’t decide. Looking down at the IV line, I think about ripping it out, but I know better. Instead, I tug off the tape, slowly slide the needle out, and then toss it away. As I strip off the gown, I don’t allow myself to look in the mirror to see the gauze covering my wound.

I flick on the shower and don’t even let it heat before I step in, the sharp iciness making me gasp in a good way. It wakes me up and reminds me that I’m still alive. With my blood pumping faster, my heart awakens from its slumber, and I slick back my hair and just stand here, letting the water wash everything away—my tears, my defeat, and my hopelessness.

I finally turn and start to wash my body. I carefully avoid the gauze and wash my hair twice before deciding to tackle it. It needs to be changed, so it might as well come off, but am I prepared for what lies underneath?

Refusing to look won’t change anything, but I still just stare as if that will make it better. It’s best to see it now when I’m alone, I rationalise, so that he can’t monitor my reaction and use it against me. Just do it, Nova, I tell myself, getting annoyed all over again.

I despise weakness, so I reach for the gauze.

The water dampens the gauze as I peel it off, and I stare at the scar while the spray hits my back. A choked noise escapes my throat, and I cut it off instantly. I know why I did it, and my sacrifice is proven on my body by a mark. I am strong, but that doesn’t stop the agony I feel at seeing my raw, red skin stretching from either side of my belly button and carved into my abs. It’s almost clean, but it’s going to scar badly, and there is nothing I can do about that.

I remind myself that I have many scars, and all are proof of my victories and survival, but it doesn’t stop me from mourning the loss of innocence with each and every one that mars my skin, and this is no exception. It hurts more because of what it stands for and because I realise the guys haven’t touched this one and made it better. For the first time since we have been separated, I no longer look like the woman they love—another connection to them severed. This isn’t skin they have kissed, tasted, and loved. This is raw and brutal. Like me.

I carefully wash the edges. Despite how fresh the wound is, it looks weeks old thanks to my healing, so I guess that’s something. Once I’m done, I get out and dry off, putting on a fresh set of grey underwear, joggers, jumper, and socks that were left in here. I have to roll the joggers down so they don’t press on the wound and they sit on my hips, and then I shuffle back into my room, exhausted just from that movement after days of being bedbound. I shuffle over and slowly sit, refusing to lie back down and choosing to rest just for a little bit to catch my breath.

I need to heal faster. I can’t exercise because it will rip the wound, but I need to do something, anything, rather than just sit here with my pitiful thoughts.

As I’m about to get up and figure out a plan to keep myself busy, the door opens. I freeze when I see who it is. Instantly on alert, I search for a weapon. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture, his expression cold. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then why are you here, Joel?” I snap.

He steps inside and shuts the door, keeping his back to it as he watches me. He ensures there is space between us since I’m practically vibrating with tension and the need to act. I shift closer to the IV pole, ready to use it as a bat if he comes closer.

“To talk,” he answers simply. I just carry on glaring, and he glances at my stomach. “How are you feeling?”

I fight not to wrap my arms around myself protectively, feeling sick at his presence. After all, he was going to rape me on my father’s orders to create their super babies or some shit. When I don’t respond, he sighs. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it has come to this and that you saw no other way out.”

“Apology not fucking accepted,” I snarl. “Now get the fuck out.”

He ignores me and moves closer, walking around the room as he inspects everything. I keep my body tense, ready to move, tracking every tiny movement just in case. They can’t use me for my womb anymore, but my father has made it clear that my life will be hell and this man is his sidekick, his minion.

“It won’t change anything, you know,” he finally murmurs and glances over his shoulder at me, not surprised that I’m watching him so intently. He turns and moves closer. He’s fast, with controlled, coiled movements. Pure soldier.

“What won’t?” I find myself asking, and then I snap my mouth shut to stop more questions from coming out.

“Your sacrifice.” I flinch at his words, but he carries on. “He’s just going to take it out on you even worse now. You thwarted his plan. He needed you alive and somewhat functioning before, but now? He will make it hell for you.”

Tilting my head back, I smirk at him. “I’ve lived in hell since I was a child. Bring it on.”

He watches me carefully before a smile curls his lips. “Good. I was afraid your spirit had been broken. Where would the fun be in that?” He moves towards the door then stops to glance back at me. “There’s nothing to save you anymore, girl, so I hope you are ready for the repercussions.” Then he’s gone and I slump.

All my adrenaline vanishes, becoming bone-deep exhaustion, and despite my mind screaming protests, I curl up on the bed and close my eyes, hoping to leave this place the only way I can—in my dreams.

He’s right. There is nothing to protect me now.

There is nothing to save me.

I won’t leave this place alive, but neither will they.

* * *

I’m escorted back to my room that night, and there is a terrible glint in the guards’ eyes, like they know something I don’t. I hate it. Alongside dickhead’s earlier warning, I know tomorrow will be very fucking bad. It’s time to move my plan up and fast.

Ignoring the agony ripping through my stomach, I pull myself up and into the vents again. I crawl towards the control room once more and wait for the guards to grow lazy, drifting off into a nearby room where I hear them making food, the fools.

I drop down, wincing as each step sends pure agony splintering through me. My stomach is healing faster than humanly possible, but it’s still not fast enough to be doing this.

Once inside the control room, I quickly turn off the camera and the alarms, and then I head back down the hallway. The only issue I’ll have is if I run into guards, but still, I don’t hide. I walk like I know exactly where I am going, and maybe I do from the map I’ve been creating in my head. I find what I need on floor four, and I know I need to hurry before they find out what I’ve done and turn it all back on. Opening the unlocked door, I slip inside, scanning the shelves with a grim smile before yanking down the chemicals I need.

I feel my stitches rip, and blood starts to drip into my trousers, soaking the material. Glancing down, I see it seeping through the grey fabric, turning it red, but I still keep going.

I mix most of the chemicals together in the steel mop bucket, and then I drop the last one in and hurry back to my room, racing against the cameras. Once there, I quickly shimmy under the quilt to hide the blood on my clothes that show I’ve been moving.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . .

I count down in my head and right on schedule, the chemicals mix together and explode. Alarms start to blare, and I hear running feet as they try to contain the fire. My main mission is to cause chaos and make them suffer before I kill them, and that starts tonight.

Just like I expected, my door slams open and a guard peeks in. I tilt my head towards him. “Problems in paradise?” I tease.

He points at me. “Behave.” He slams the door.

Grinning, I slide the sheet off and hurry to the bathroom. Peeling the bloody clothes off is harder than I expected, but I manage to get them off and soak them to get as much blood out as I can before replacing the grate and checking the wound. It’s red, raw, and angry, and I nicked the skin and popped a few stitches, but there is nothing I can do about it now. I cover it with more gauze and redress it before slipping into another top and pants, and then I climb back into bed as the alarms continue to blare.

I smile as I close my eyes.

One step closer.

I’m one step closer.