Page 22 of UnTrained: Volume One
Her eyes widen at the sound of her name on my lips. Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe, or remembrance. For a moment, I glimpse the woman beneath the training.
"I just think you'd be more comfortable with clothes on for our conversation," I add, deliberately softening my tone.
She nods silently, her shoulders still rigid with tension. The distrust in her eyes is palpable. My consideration of her comfort clearly doesn't align with whatever hell she's been through these past months.
I step aside to let her pass. As she moves by me, I catch the faint scent of fear-sweat and beneath it, something uniquely her.
She inhales sharply when our proximity narrows, her pupils dilating slightly. Her body responding to mine despite her mind's resistance.
I lead her back down the hallway, then watch her slip into her room, where I've left clothes—gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Basic, non-threatening.
I realize too late I forgot underwear. Another oversight that will likely reinforce whatever narrative she's constructed about my intentions.
I wait in the hallway while she dresses herself, making no move to close the door. I’d imagine that privacy isn’t on her mind at all at this point.
When she pulls the sweatpants over her bruised ass, she lets out a barely-audible hiss.
I wince at the sound. I hate the idea that the only way to get information from her is through force, when she’s been through so much.
There has to be an easier way to undo the training and conditioning she’s gone through, to pull out the information we need to take down the trafficking ring as well as return Lana to her life.
But I’m starting to worry that this might be the only way.
15
LANA
Ipull the t-shirt over my head, grateful for the covering, even as the rough cotton of the pants scrapes against my sore bottom.
When I step back into the hallway, Aiden is waiting for me, his blue eyes scanning my face as if searching for something. I keep my gaze lowered, focusing on the linoleum beneath my bare feet.
"This way," he says, his voice neutral.
He’s impossible to read, and it’s terrifying.
I follow him down the corridor, past more unmarked doors, until he stops at one that looks identical to all the others. He pushes it open and gestures for me to enter first.
The room beyond the door is different from the others I've seen. It's warmer somehow, with soft lighting and actual furniture: a couch, a small table with two chairs, even a bookshelf against one wall. The floor is covered with a thick carpet.
I hesitate in the doorway, uncertain.
"Have a seat," Aiden says, gesturing toward the couch. He doesn’t push me forward or force me, though. Just waits, holding the door, until I step into the room.
I perch on the edge of the cushions. I keep my back straight, hands folded in my lap. The soft fabric feels strange against my skin after so many months of hard surfaces. My welted bottom throbs as it presses against the cushion, but I don't let my discomfort show on my face.
Aiden doesn't sit beside me. Instead, he takes one of the chairs across from me, putting the small table between us.
I breathe a sigh of relief, making sure to keep from making any noise. There’s something about this man that I haven’t figured out yet, and it’s keeping me on edge.
At the facility, the men were clear about their intentions, and I figured out early how to please them. I followed orders quickly and without question, held whatever position they asked, took whatever punishment they deemed necessary.
But so far, Aiden doesn’t seem to want obedience from me. Information, maybe.
Is that the test? To make sure I don’t give up their secrets?
I study the man across from me as he crosses one ankle over the other knee.
His black t-shirt stretches across his broad chest, and I can see the definition of muscles beneath the fabric. He's attractive in a way that makes my stomach flutter—and that terrifies me more than anything else.
