Page 3 of The Witch's Heart
“You’re in hospital, mate,” the man named Dean says, and his words are followed quickly by a derisive snort.
“Don’t call it that,” says a second voice, and I stiffen.
“Is someone else there?” I ask.
But there’s only silence.
I begin to wonder if I’ve imagined him.
“That’s Declan,” Dean says finally. “My brother. The rude one.”
Another snort. “It’s not my fault you’re just too nice.”
Curious, I throw back the covers and stand. The room wobbles a bit, and there’s a shuffle inside the cell across from mine.
“Take it slow,” Dean warns, but I manage to walk to the bars and grab them for support.
They’re rough, rusted and peeling from age. The concrete floor is cold beneath my bare feet. Goosebumps raise along my arms and legs, and I shiver from the draft that comes from further down the darkened hallway.
Craning my neck, I try to see where the passage leads, but the shadows swallow it up, obscuring any sign of an exit.
“What is this place?” I ask, though I’m not sure knowing will bring any sense of relief or clarity.
In the cell across from my own, a figure steps out of the shadows.
He’s tall. Through the thin shirt he wears, it’s easy to make out broad shoulders, muscled arms, and a toned chest. His sharp jawline is stiff with a tension reflected in his gaze as he stares back at me.
My knees weaken underneath his scrutiny.
I tell myself my body’s reaction is a side effect of whatever drugs I was given—a cocktail, as he put it—but the truth is I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more handsome. Or more intimidating.
From underneath a mop of messy brown hair, his emerald eyes rake me over, and I imagine him cataloguing me. Like he’s trying to figure out which box I fit into.
After a moment, he blinks, and his eyes soften.
“This isLe RêveAsylum,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Asylum? But— How did I get here?”
“I imagine your story is much like the rest of ours,” he says. “You were given a drug, something to knock you out for the length of the journey, and then you were unceremoniously deposited here.”
“They can’t do that,” I say, indignation burning hot in my belly. “They didn’t have my permission to admit me.”
“They don’t need permission,” says the second voice, a sardonic lilt to his clipped words.
Footsteps sound, and another shape emerges from the shadowy depths of Dean’s cell. When a shaft of light falls over the second man’s face, I can only stare in surprise. They’re nearly identical—right down to the little tic in their jawline—and both are just as emotionally unreadable as they study me. But the second one, Declan, I assume, is bit leaner. His hair a tad longer, wilder. And his eyes, a slightly darker green than his twin’s, are also sharper.
More distrustful. And more calculating.
Instantly, I decide I was wrong before. Ihavemet someone more intimidating than Dean.
“You’re twins,” I say finally, stating the obvious as I studiously ignore the way my clammy hands have started to slip against the bars. The way my left wrist throbs in pain as I clutch the metal more tightly.
What are two of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen—Australians at that—doing in a dungeon? For that matter, what amIdoing in a dungeon? Even if I was involuntarily admitted for what happened in my flat… this isn’t the standard treatment for suicide attempts. Unless I actually succeeded and I’m in hell? That would make the most sense.
“Your perception is astounding,” Declan says dryly.
“Well, clearly you’re not identical in every way,” I toss back. I shoot Declan a saccharine smile. “Dean was right. Youarethe rude one, aren’t you?”
