Page 12 of Unchained

He swept his hand in a circle. “The fuckers running this place. The nurses you chat with. The doctors who take us to the bottom floor and torture us—me.”

Her lips curved down into a frown as if she was trying to stop her chin from trembling. “They hurt you?”

While his hand was free, he took the opportunity to run it over his face. He scratched the thick scruff under his chin, and then touched the zingy spots that still ached from the rubber bullets. “Whenever I resist.”

She came closer. “Resist what? I want to help you, but I need to understand what’s going on here.”

He moved his stare to the ceiling. A yellow water stain covered a section of the off-white tiles. How the fuck should he begin? She wouldn’t believe him. Not when his memory was patchy and his body was still riding high from hormones. Her palm covered his wrist, and the contact spread a wave of warmth to his chest. So gentle. He hadn’t been touched gently or with compassion by another human being in . . . how long had it been? Christ. He’d been gone almost eight months.

Seven months of hell, then one month of torture.

“Brooks? Please. I don’t have much time. I need to see other patients soon or I’ll look suspicious. Did something happen on the twelfth floor?”

He swung his gaze to her face and coiled his arm away from her. “You know about it?”

She curled her fingers into her palm. “After what you said yesterday, I had to check things out. Before my shift today I went to the twelfth floor. There was glass everywhere, tables overturned and . . . restraints broken. It was you, wasn’t it? They hurt you?”

He gnashed his teeth. “I told you that’s what they do.” He didn’t try to take the bite out of his tone. “They were punishing me for escaping the other night.”

She cocked her head. “Punishing you how?”

He rolled his wrist in a circle, reveling in being momentarily free and at the same time releasing a tiny bit of the energy that the memory conjured.

“Water torture and withdrawals,” he whispered gruffly.

Her eyes rounded to huge green dishes. “Water torture?” She inched closer and ran her fingers over the sensitive flesh on his abdomen. He flinched and she drew her hand away. “That’s why you’re red?”

He nodded.

She studied his body as if assessing it for more signs of the truth—or hoping to find something to make him a liar. “Withdrawals from what?”

“The drug.”

She shook her head. “What do you mean? The sedative?”

“No. The one that they’re experimenting with.”

She raised both her hands, stopping him from saying more. “Hold on. Holy shit.” She blew a breath through her lips and turned her back to take two paces toward the door. She turned and came back. “What drug?”

He rolled a shoulder. “I don’t know what it’s called.”

She went to the door and whipped the clipboard from the plastic case. Flipping through the pages, she shook her head. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary—”

He snorted. “Do you really think they’d document an experimental drug I never consented to using? Just like they documented the water torture and the incident in the basement?”

She lowered the clipboard. “What happened?”

“They deprived me of the drug for hours. If I go too long without it, I suffer intense withdrawal. They thought that would be a perfect time to throw me in the water chamber for several hours.”

Her face paled. “Then what happened?”

“They had me strapped standing up to a metal bed and told me I’d have to kill another person—”

“Wait, what?” Her voice hit a shrill note.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

Regret pulled at the sides of her mouth. “It’s a little hard to wrap my head around.” Her dry tone made him almost smile.

---