Page 68 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

Stealing another sideways glance, she noticed that the doctor's entourage carried small black cases that could hold syringes, vials, or any number of instruments.

Her stomach lurched at the sight. He must be planning to begin his twisted transformation or experimentation on the new female prisoners that had arrived yesterday.

Why females, though?

If they wanted to create super soldiers, wouldn't it have been better to experiment on men?

Maybe it didn't work on males. Or perhaps they wanted women to use as spies. She knew better than most that women made better undercover operatives than men.

Kyra kept her gaze down, but her ears strained to pick up more words. The conversation drifted in and out, but she managed to glean that they wanted to watch the new arrivals for something, and then he said something followed by twelve.

A wave of nausea washed over her as old ghosts clamored in her mind. Had this so-called doctor been the one who had transformed her into what she'd become?

Suddenly, the corridor felt too narrow. The air too thick. She didn't dare stop mopping for fear of freezing in place, so she forced her arms to move—scrubbing, pushing, scrubbing, pushing—while her mind screamed for her to run.

As a guard stepped forward, delivering something to the commander, Kyra seized the chance to shuffle a few steps back, letting him pass between her and the doctor's group. She positioned herself near a wall, lowered her head, and continued her charade of cleaning the baseboards. If she could only stay out of their direct sight until they finished and moved on.

Moved on to what, though? Tormenting Twelve?

This doctor was conducting the same twisted experiment that had turned her into a near-immortal creature with preternatural strength and reflexes, healing far faster than any normal human.

Was he looking to refine the methods? Improve the results?

The entourage pivoted, preparing to continue down the corridor. The commander bent respectfully, gesturing for the doctor to go ahead. The man stepped forward, flanked by two guards, each with a firearm holstered at their hip.

A wave of relief touched Kyra—maybe he'd pass right by without noticing her.

But then the doctor paused, looking like a predator who had just sniffed prey, and his gaze swept over the hallway. Kyra bent over, wringing out the rag into the bucket of dirty mop water, trying to reinforce the perception of a lowly maid just doing her job.

She could practically feel his eyes skim over her, and her heart pounded so loudly she feared it would betray her.

He said something in that guttural dialect, an almost whispered question. The commander muttered a dismissive response in Farsi—perhaps clarifying that she was a nobody.

There was silence, a long pause. Kyra held her breath, every nerve lit, terrified that if he looked closer, if he saw her eyes, he'd recognize her.

After all, her eyes were very distinctive. Not many had gold flakes swirling around their irises.

She heard a faint snort, perhaps the doctor's reaction, before he resumed walking. The click of his polished shoes on the floor sent an ominous echo. The entourage continued forward, and the commander murmured quick apologies, promising everything would be ready. Kyra almost let herself breathe again.

Almost.

Then, the doctor stopped once more. She sensed the shift in the air as he turned back, looking over his shoulder. The need to look up and meet his eyes was overpowering, but she resisted, keeping her head down and scrubbing.

She felt his stare and could imagine his lips pressed together in a line of suspicion, his brow furrowed. Her pulse hammered so hard that her vision blurred at the edges.

Time felt suspended.

A second stretched into five, then ten. The hush in the corridor was deafening. She refused to look up, focusing on the swirl of dirty water around the rag she was dipping in the bucket. She concentrated on the beads of sweat forming along her temple, the dryness in her throat, and anything except meeting that gaze.

And then, mercifully, a single step sounded, followed by others, and they were walking away, their footsteps growing fainter as they headed around the corner.

Only when Kyra was sure they were gone did she slowly exhale.

She flexed her fingers, which had been clenched around the rag. She had to keep up the façade a little longer until the corridor was fully clear. Then she'd slip into the nearest supply closet and stay there until the monster left.

46

KYRA

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