Chapter 26

TWENTY-SIX

“Now, Novaleen,” my father begins as he sits down opposite me. This could almost be called a meeting if you overlooked the fact that my hands are strapped to the electric chair. “Shall we begin?”

“It’s Nova,” I reply conversationally.

He frowns, his eyes roving over my hair like they did when I was first dragged in here. “I was told you broke the mirror in your room and cut your hair. May I ask why, Novaleen?”

“I felt like a change. You know how it is, got to spice up your life a little. The round-the-clock torture can get a little tiresome.” I’m hurting all over, mind, body, heart, and soul, and yes, I’m taking it out on him. I don’t know what he wants from me this time, and I don’t fucking care.

He won’t get it.

“I thought your punishment might make you more amenable, Novaleen. I simply wish to talk today.”

“Of course,” I mock. “Hence the electric chair.”

“I have learned that sometimes you need to be persuaded. Do not make me the bad guy.” He leans back, his arms crossed. “I’d like to talk to you about what you did while we were apart.”

“When I ran away from home so I wasn’t your prisoner, or when I thought you were dead, or both?” He goes to answer, but I cut him off. “Oh, I’m sorry, time’s up, and I simply do not give a fuck.”

The buzz zaps me, short and quick, and I narrow my eyes.

“I had one hell of a party when I thought you were dead, with Jell-O shots and a bullseye with your face on the board—” My words cut off with a snap of my teeth as the electricity pulses through me again, harder this time. When it cuts off, I sag a little.

“Now, how about we start elsewhere since you seem averse to talking about anything with your past, your . . . friends, or your sister.”

“Do not speak her name,” I warn, nostrils flaring as my nails dig into the chair, wishing they could carve into his face instead.

“You are still upset about her death. While I do hate the force I had to use, and she was very bright, it was necessary, Nova, you must see that. I had to free you from that bond. She was holding you back. You could never reach your full potential while you were worried about her or her reaction,” he explains as if it’s a logical decision.

I simply look over his shoulder to the glass screen where some other scientists are monitoring us. “Novaleen,” he snaps, hating when I don’t give him the attention he thinks he deserves.

“Did you spend years building this little hideout of yours?”

“Yes,” he responds carefully.

“And white paint was the best you could go for?” I taunt.

The chair buzzes again, and when it cuts off, I laugh.

“Fine, let us talk about those men you are with. Failed experiments. I looked into their files. Most of them offered a lot of potential, but in the end, they failed, unlike you. Why do you think you felt so connected to them? Was it simply circumstance or because you felt like you could be somewhat free with them when it came to your past and abilities? Do you think that affects the way you saw them? Did it create an artificial bond?”

“It was not artificial,” I snap. “They are my family.”

“I am your family,” he murmurs. “We do not have a bond.”

“You are a sadistic fuck who dresses like a person in a toothpaste commercial,” I spit. “They knew that. We had been through the same things.”

“Ah, trauma bonded.” He makes a quick note, which I hate.

“No, it is more than that,” I hiss angrily at him before blowing out a breath and calming myself, knowing he wants a reaction. “I do not need to defend my relationships to you or explain them. It was fate that brought them to me, and what we have cannot be replicated or explained with science.”

“Ah, that is where you are wrong. After all, I brought them to you, and I plan to repeat it. If we are to create solid, cohesive units of soldiers, then they will need a similar bond of trust. Maybe I should have taken them after all.” He sighs. “A pity we can’t find them.”

I jerk at the slip of information, hanging onto his every word. I want to know more. Why can’t he find them? Are they lying low? Hiding? Or worse, hunting?

“I would be interested to see what curated a bond faster—fear or loyalty,” he murmurs to himself then blinks at me. “Never mind. Tell me how you have been since leaving me. Stronger? Faster? What other changes have you noticed?”

“Well, there was that time I felt a burning sensation when I peed, but that turned out to be an STD—”

Zap, and so it goes.

He asks question after question, which I answer with angrier and sassier answers, infuriating him. I just suffered a particularly bad shock when my head lolls back and my eyes go to the glass, and I swear I see a flash of a familiar, haunted gaze, but it is just wishful thinking, so I close my eyes, not wanting to hurt my heart more than it already does.

* * *

After the shock therapy, as Father called it, there is a cruel twist to his lips. He is angry that I refused to play his game. I know whatever comes next will be a punishment that I have no choice but to take. I’m escorted to a lab and tied down on the examination table. My eyes close for a moment as I try to rein back my panic, remembering the last time I was like this and I burnt out my insides. Still, I’m sore and healing, so surely they wouldn’t—

A scream escapes my throat.

Their warnings were correct. They don’t need me alive anymore, and the proof is in his eyes. His gloved hand slices open my healing stomach, cutting right through the stitches and tearing me open once more. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes. This is more than a punishment. This is a warning to give him what he needs or I will beg for death just like those other kids did.

When his gloved hand starts to force the wound open, I can’t control my reactions anymore.

Gritting my teeth, I swallow the taste of my own blood, my nails breaking as I claw at the arms of the bed. My legs and arms thrash against the restraints, and I throw my head back in agony as pain blisters through me like a flame.

The blade slides deeper into my stomach, and I lift to watch the blood welling from my abdomen before I glare at the scientists and Father above me.

He doesn’t spare me a look.

“You’re dead,” I warn, my voice choked.

He ignores me as he plunges his hand into my stomach, making me fall back, and the trapped howl of agony finally rips through the lab before I pass out.

When I wake up, I feel him there, watching and judging.

He pulled me apart like a cat playing with a spider, ripping off its legs to see if they still kick. Forcing my swollen, grimy eyes open, I find my stomach stapled, but I’m still tied down and coated in sweat and blood.

My father stands there with a pen poised above a notebook. “How do you feel, Novaleen?”

“Fuck you,” I croak, my throat raw from screaming.

His eyes narrow before he repeats the question harder.

“How do I feel?” I repeat, my tongue thick. “Like when I get free, I’m going to rip you apart to see how you like it.”

Dropping the pen, he leans in with a cruel twist of his lips, his familiar eyes meeting mine. “Oh, but you won’t be getting free, will you? Not again.”

And then he leaves.

I scream and fight, trapped once more.

I have been reduced to an experiment—again.