Page 16 of UnTrained: Volume One
Iblink against the light.
As my eyes adjust, I manage to take in the rest of the room.
White walls. One door on the far wall. Solid flooring—maybe linoleum?
White bedsheets that do very little to offer anything in the way of warmth or even much coverage.
I tuck the white sheets up under my armpits as I rub my fists against my eyes again, hoping it will bring back memories.
The warehouse. Crates. An exam table.
I shiver at the memory. Not just at the way they spread me open, but at the way I melted into those blue eyes.
I don’t even know that man. Aiden, his name was.
But there was something about him, or maybe about his voice, that had me following his commands easily.
I run my hand over my face again. I could check the door, but I’m sure it’s locked. I’m just glad that I have a bed this time. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s better than a cement floor.
As if on cue, the door handle dips, and the door cracks open.
I freeze, pulling the sheet higher against my chest. My heart hammers, waiting to see who’s there.
"Good, you're awake." Aiden's voice fills the small room as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He's carrying a tray, and the smell of food makes my stomach clench with hunger.
I sit up straighter. I’m not sure what position he expects me in. Should I kneel? Stand? The uncertainty makes my pulse race.
He sets the tray on a small table I hadn't noticed before, then turns to study me. In the better lighting, I can see him more clearly. Dark hair, strong jaw, those piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through me. He's wearing dark pants and a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He looks powerful in a way that makes my breath catch.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, gesturing to the tray.
I nod, then remember my training. "Yes, Sir."
He frowns slightly at that but doesn't correct me. Instead, he pulls a chair close to the bed and sits, his movements controlled and deliberate.
"I brought you some clothes, too." He nods toward a folded pile on the edge of the tray. "Nothing fancy, but it's better nothing."
"Thank you, Sir," I say automatically.
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching my face. "Do you remember your name yet?"
The question catches me off guard. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "One twenty-seven," I whisper.
He sighs, a sound of frustration that makes me tense. His jaw works as he seems to consider his next words carefully.
"That's not a name," he says finally. "That's a number they gave you to dehumanize you."
I stare at him, uncertain how to respond. I've been 127 for so long now that anything else feels like a distant dream, like trying to remember someone else's life.
"Look," he says, his voice softening slightly. "I know this is confusing. But you're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."
I almost laugh at that. Safe. What does that even mean anymore? I've heard those words before, whispered by other girls who believed them, who thought if they just behaved well enough, the pain would stop. They were always wrong.
"May I eat, Sir?" I ask instead of responding to his statement.
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe. But he nods and pushes the tray closer to me.
I look down at the tray, taking in the simple meal—a sandwich, apple, and what appears to be water in a plastic cup. Not a glass that could be broken. Not a metal cup that could be sharpened. They've thought of everything.
