Page 95 of Borrowed Pain
"Rook chose death rather than let you torture more people," I said clearly. "That's not Rowan's fault. That's yours."
Harrow's clinical mask slipped further, revealing frustration beneath her professional composure. Whatever timeline they'd planned, my resistance was disrupting it.
"Increase the dosage," she told the technicians.
Even as more chemicals flooded my system, my therapeutic training held like bedrock. Years of helping clients distinguish between their abusers' lies and their own reality had prepared me for this moment.
I know who I am. I know what's real. I know why I'm here.
Somewhere in Seattle, my family realized I'd missed my first check-in.
"Your resistance is fascinating, Dr. McCabe. Most subjects achieve therapeutic compliance within the first hour."
She continued with her assault. "Your lovely family. They're quite devoted to you. Marcus with his legal pads, Michael racingup from Oregon, Matthew cooking comfort food while you walk into obvious danger. Such touching loyalty to someone who leads the people he loves toward destruction."
The words found their target—every ounce of guilt about being the family disaster, the youngest son whose problems became everyone's crisis. The pharmaceuticals made the emotions hit harder, self-doubt flooding my system as effectively as Rook's poison.
"How do you think Mr. Ashcroft is processing his guilt right now? Watching another witness die because he trusted your judgment?"
"You're afraid," I said, watching Harrow's face. "This isn't working as it's supposed to, and you're afraid your supervisors will consider you a failure."
Her eyes flashed. "I am not—"
"You are. Your standard techniques aren't breaking me down fast enough." I managed a smile that probably looked deranged. "What happens to researchers who can't deliver results on schedule?"
"Dr. McCabe, your defiance is only prolonging the inevitable. We have all the needed time, and we've only just begun." I detected an edge of desperation.
I know who I am.The mantra became a meditation, each repetition strengthening my grip on reality.I am Dr. Miles McCabe. I specialize in trauma recovery. I help people distinguish between their abusers' lies and their own truth.
Matthew's words echoed in my memory:Sometimes you have thirty seconds to decide whether someone else's life is worth your own safety.I'd made that calculation this morning, choosing the possibility of breakthrough science over guaranteed security.
Now I understood the real choice: survive long enough to expose what they'd done to Iris, David, and all the others who'd trusted professionals and received torture instead of healing.
"Your resistance is causing unnecessary suffering," Harrow pressed. "For yourself and future subjects who could benefit from refined protocols."
Future subjects.More people like me, more families like mine, and more trauma survivors betrayed by the very system designed to heal them.
My vision blurred at the edges, but my core remained solid—professional identity anchored by years of training, family love that transcended geography, and a new partner's love that waited for my return.
Rowan was probably awake by now. He'd come looking, with my brothers at his side.
The door behind me opened. New voices, footsteps, and the sound of equipment wheeled into position.
"Phase Two preparations," someone announced.
Harrow's smile was sharp as surgical steel. "Now, Dr. McCabe, we begin the real protocol."
I was ready for whatever came next. I wasn't planning to die.
They'd made one crucial miscalculation: they'd chosen to experiment on someone trained to recognize what they were doing.
And that training ran deeper than any drug could reach.
Chapter twenty
Rowan
Dorian's voice dragged me from the first real sleep I'd managed since Rook died.
