Page 119 of Sawyer

My head immediately spins, and I sink back down onto the thin mattress. My stomach clenches, and not wanting to puke on myself, I throw my body toward the toilet and heave. Nothing comes up but bile and saliva, which I spit into the bowl.

The cool porcelain feels fantastic against my burning cheeks. I’m pretty sure I still have a fever. Sweat beads all over my body, and I shake a bit. I remain pressed against the toilet for a long moment before I sit up.

Above my bed is a digital clock that reads ten in the morning in bright red letters. Below it on the same black screen is my name, designation, and age of twenty-eight.

My head thunks against the wall. If I wanted proof that this isn’t a safe place, it’s on the wall in red neon letters. To the right, the two-way mirror reflects the door and the hall beyond. In the distance, I hear soft chatter and the clinking of silverware.

Feeling more thirsty than anything else, I push myself up, determined to get some food in me or, at the very least, some juice, then maybe I’ll find this bathhouse.

Wearing slipper socks on my feet, I pause at the doorway and peer into the hall. Again, it’s all primarily white, with fluorescent lights humming overhead. There are several doors across the hall, some open, some shut, and more on my side of the hall—all numbered.

There’s one on my door with another number below it.

Directly to my left is a door with a small keypad and a similar door across the hall. At the end are double doors that mirror the other end. It’s symmetrical, with the exact same number of doors on either side.

Taking a chance, I head right and use my hand against the railing on the wall to keep steady. The only breaks in the railing are from the doors every ten feet.

The entire hall makes my head even woozier. It feels like it goes on forever.

I pause at the first door I come across, reading the number three and the number below it that makes no sense to me. The three digits feel random, but I’m sure they aren’t.

Peering through the little window, I find another room, which is very similar to my own and empty. The next room is another odd number, followed by others labeled up to eleven, and then I’m at the double doors.

With nerves rumbling in my belly, I push through and into a small cafeteria. There are four tables in a square and a serving window. I see about ten women in here, and all of them pause to look up at me as I enter, each of them wearing the same pitying expression on their faces.

Yeah, this is not a good place at all.

Ever so slowly, I make my way to the serving window, keeping my hand on the wall as I step up. An older woman peers through a Plexiglas barrier, taking me in before she slides a plate and an empty drink cup toward me. She doesn’t say a damn thing before she walks off. The room she’s in is small, and it looks like there’s a dumbwaiter.

A possible escape route.

I grab the cup and turn to the side, only to find a woman there, her limp blonde hair and blue eyes sad and drained.

“Will you let me help you?” she asks softly. She’s a little smaller than me and curvier. Once upon a time, she must have been beautiful, but this place has drained her. Deep circles line her eyes, and there’s an ashen look to her skin where it should be pink.

I nod, not wanting to speak because I’m afraid I might puke again.

“Sit. I’ll get you a drink and grab your plate.” She hooks her elbow in mine, leading me away from the window to the nearest empty table. She gracefully hooks a foot in the chair, sliding it out.

I’m not so graceful when I drop down and sway.

She sets the plate before me. “Let me get you a drink first. The drugs they pump into us take a little while to get out. If you eat, you’ll probably just puke it up.” Her words are a warning and a truth.

Blowing out a slow breath, I turn to the woman as she sits beside me and inhales. I can’t tell what she is, and I can’t even pick up her scent.

She pushes a drink toward me. “Orange juice,” she says. “Don’t try to get a scent just yet. The bleach burns everything until we get used to it.”

I lift the juice to my lips, just letting it wet them first before I sip.

I don’t swallow immediately, and instead, I let the juice swirl in my mouth and warm so it won’t make my stomach clench. Focusing on the woman beside me, who’s wearing a darker brown outfit and a warm smile, I can’t help but wonder if she’s an omega. She’s kind and gentle and has the demeanor of a gamma, but also something else.

She also has a scar on her neck. It’s jagged but healed. She reaches up and presses her fingers to it, a flush spreading across her face. “Don’t ask the others about their scars,” she whispers. “I was shot.”

Feeling like a prying asshole, I sip my juice again and try to curb the desire to chug the entire thing. “Spider bite.” I wave my hand at her before laying it back down. It’s still nasty, and it’s going to leave a horrible scar. “I’m Sawyer.” I sip my juice again.

She doesn’t tell me her name and instead smiles. “We all know who you are.”

Frowning, I look around the room, finding a single television in the corner. It’s off, and the screen is blank.

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