Page 16 of Warrior

“Are low,” I finish. “That’s low, right?”

He shrugs, then motions to the board. “They’ve been giving her some medicine every few hours, and I think it’s almost time again.”

We’ve been here for six days, and nothing has changed. The blood tests they ran immediately showed normal results, which was the most perplexing part of this whole thing.

How can they not detect the drug that’s holding her mind hostage?

They even compared her results to Reese’s, with no luck.

I hit the call button beside her hand—in case she miraculously wakes and needs help—and brush her hair off her forehead. A light film of cool sweat has collected there, dampening the strands.

A nurse arrives a few minutes later. She checks Artemis over, frowning, and agrees to give her the meds now instead of waiting. She disappears outside to retrieve it and comes back with two syringes. She snaps on gloves, and I scan the board. It only has one medication listed.

“What are you giving her?” I ask.

“An anti-inflammatory.”

“And the second?”

Reese sits up, now watching her, too.

“Just glucose,” she murmurs. “It’s to make sure her levels stay consistent.”

“That would be on her board, wouldn’t it?” Reese narrows his eyes. “Maybe you should wait.”

The nurse shakes her head and inserts the needle into the IV tube. We watch the amber liquid make its way down and into Artemis.

Something is off, though. My gut twists, and I take a step forward.

I grab her wrist.

She stares up at me in shock, fingers freezing.

“Saint,” Reese warns. “What?—”

“Tell me honestly,” I say in a low voice. “Before I break your fucking wrist.”

Her lips part, and then her grip on the syringe tightens. She pushes the plunger down and yanks away from me. She’s gone before I can try to hold her back, but my attention is already shifting to Artemis.

The drug enters her system, and her body tenses. Her back arches.

“That’s not normal.” Reese jumps out of bed, practically falling to her side. He holds the rails erected on either side of her bed, leaning on them, and stares at her face.

The faint furrow between her brows smooths out.

He reaches over for the syringe. There’s still a few drops left, which he swipes from the needle. Totally not sanitary—and neither is licking the liquid.

“What the fuck?” I snatch it back and toss it in the sharps container.

He rolls his eyes at me, then frowns. “It’s heroin.”

I stop.

What?

“They—”

“How many times has that nurse been in here?” I demand. “And how the fuck do you know what it tastes like?”

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