Page 9 of UnTrained: Volume One
I blink; not sure I understand.
“My name is Aiden. That is what you will call me. Sir is also acceptable, but not Master. This is Alex. Do you understand?”
I nod, licking my dry lips. “Yes, Sir.” It seems wrong to use their names, at least aloud.
The door opens. I lift my head just enough to see that another man has entered. It’s the sandy-haired man who led Celia away.
“Hi there, sweetheart,” he says. “My name is Gavin. I’m a medic. Did Aiden and Alex tell you what to expect?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Gavin. A word.” Aiden abruptly moves from my side, and he and Gavin walk toward the door. Alex follows them.
A minute later, Aiden and Gavin return. Alex isn’t with them.
I’m still spread open, my knees wide as I wait for whatever they plan to do to me.
It can’t be worse than before.
Can it?
6
LANA
Aiden returns to my side as Gavin pulls a metal tray over to the table.
My hands clench into fists at my sides as the metal instruments clatter softly against the tray. The sound echoes in the sterile room, each clink making my muscles tense despite my training.
"This won't hurt," Gavin says, his voice gentler than Aiden's. I don’t trust it. "I just need to check that you're healthy. That no one has injured you."
I keep my breathing steady, counting the ceiling tiles again. Twenty-seven. Always twenty-seven.
Gavin moves between my legs, and I force myself to remain still. The vinyl beneath me crinkles as I shift slightly, my body betraying my anxiety despite my efforts to appear compliant.
Gloved hands touch my inner thigh, and I flinch involuntarily. My breath catches in my throat.
"Easy," Aiden says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Gavin is just going to check to make sure you’re okay. Nothing more."
I stare at the ceiling, focusing on the tiles again. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven.
"I'm going to examine you now," Gavin says. "If anything hurts, tell me."
I almost laugh. Tell him if it hurts? As if my comfort matters. As if I have the right to complain. But I nod anyway, because that's what they expect.
His touch is clinical, impersonal. Not like the men at the facility. There, examinations were just another form of violation, another way to remind us that our bodies weren't our own.
This examination feels different, though I can't pinpoint why. Gavin's movements are methodical, careful. When his fingers probe my belly gently, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making any sound.
"Any pain here?" he asks, pressing lightly against tender skin of my abdomen.
I shake my head. There is discomfort, but nothing like the deliberate cruelty I've grown accustomed to. Nothing meant to break me further.
He presses again, deeper, and I can’t hide my wince at the pain.
“When was your last bowel movement, sweetheart?” Gavin asks.
My face flushes hot at the question. I bite my lower lip as I think back.
