Page 73 of Mission Shift

He ripped the pants out from under me with one harsh tug.

I couldn’t react. The paralysis owned me.

I stared at the ceiling, keeping my mind detached, in a different space.

Dr. Gore stepped into my periphery. His breathing was heavier now, and he had the faintest tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his pristine white coat.

He was watching with predatory interest.

Enjoying every minute of this humiliation.

Sick bastard.

Oleg grabbed the hem of my shirt next, slicing through it. The cold air hit my bare skin, the sensation heightened by the drug’s numbing grip.

The doctor leaned over my face, his pupils blown wide.

A voyeur.

Oleg, on the other hand, was a sadist.

His fingers trailed over my stomach, then moved higher, dragging the blade of the scissors in a slow arc over the swell of my breast. There was a sharp sting. He applied just enough pressure to let me feel it. Not enough to break the skin.

I knew what was happening. Knew what the doctor had given me.

Curare.

The realization sent a fresh wave of terror clawing through my mind. My body remained useless. The paralytic had taken full hold now, locking every muscle in place. Ventilation controlled my breathing. I couldn’t lift a finger, couldn’t even twitch in response to the slow, taunting scrape of the steel against my flesh. But I felteverything.

The sharp pressure of the blade against my skin made my nerve endings scream in warning. I couldn’t jerk away. Couldn’t flinch. Couldn’t even shudder. I was a helpless prisoner inside my own skin—fully aware, fully present, but trapped in absolute stillness.

Oleg knew it too.

He traced his fingers over the curve of my breast, pausing just long enough to let his nails drag over my nipples. He pinched one hard and smirked. “What a lovely tight peak.” He slowly rolled the other between his fingers, taking pleasure in my body’s response before leaning over and sucking it into his mouth.

The doctor stood silent, watching Oleg’s tongue.

Heat surged through me, but not from arousal. From rage. Helpless, burning rage. If I could’ve moved, I would’ve killed Oleg. I would’ve ripped the scissors from his hands and gutted him from neck to navel. But the drug had stolen even my fury’s expression.

My lungs shuddered with the next forced breath. The supportive breaths were just enough to keep me aware of every touch, every single cruel stroke of his hands.

I had been tortured before. Beaten. Electrocuted. Broken. But never like this. Never in a way that robbed me of my ability to fight back.

Oleg took his time, dragging the blade lower again, circling my navel and applying enough pressure to ensure pain. I couldn’t even grind my teeth in response.

Curare wasn’t just a tool for immobilization. It was a way to render a person completely vulnerable, make them into a living corpse—able to feel pain, forced to endure every ounce of suffering but unable to resist it. And that knowledge, the helpless certainty of what was coming, was worse than the cut of the blade itself.

“You have such nice tits,” Oleg mused. “Would be a shame if something happened to them.”

I reinforced my mental walls.Protect. Separate.

Oleg pressed his fingers against my clit while he drew the blade from one of my hip bones to the other. My body wouldhave arched off the table if it could have. Instead, I lay still, frozen, helpless, burning alive inside my own mind.

“You think the American touched her there?” the doctor asked, his voice pitched high in curiosity. “She did risk everything for him. A woman doesn’t do that unless she has been…satisfied.”

Oleg circled my clit and pressed harder, leaning down, his breath hot against my hip. “What do you think, Doctor? Think she moaned for him? Think he made her beg?”

He continued with his violation of my body, and the doctor watched.

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