Page 55 of Forbidden Bonds
“Good then,” Peters says. “Any more concerns or questions?”
I hesitate. It’s not just about reading anymore. Ever since that moment in the tunnels, I’m aware of another side to my gift. I haven’t told them. No one knows except Rhett. What if I push when I mean to pull? What if I project instead of listening?
Rhett’s hand squeezes over mine.You’ve got this. I believe in you. But this goes without saying, you can’t let anyone know about the other side of your gift. Don’t want to give the bastards any reason to hang onto you. You owe them nothing.
“I’m ready,” I say.
We’re taken from the briefing room into an operations room. Monitors fill the walls. A dozen workstations where analysts and experts are ready. They will be assessing every word that passesCohen’s lips, along with what I tell them, analyzing his body language and reviewing the system’s interpretations.
The monitors show a stark room with a table and two chairs facing each other. It is currently empty. Soon, Cohen will be brought in.
“I’m told you can work from an adjoining room,” Peters says. “Would this be to your requirements?”
He indicates a small seating area to one side of the operations room. It offers clear views of all the monitors. There is also a camera directed at it. To record me and everything I say. I understand why they’re doing this, but it still makes me nervous.
“Yes,” I say, offering a wobbly smile for Peters and Rhett. “This will work.”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” Peters repeats. He motions for a woman to come and join us. She takes a seat nearby. “We’ll take it slowly. You can call a rest at any time.” He indicates a young beta woman in a sharp suit. “Agent Wilson is a specialist on this project. She can answer any questions you may have while I’m in the other room, call a halt to the proceedings, if necessary, that kind of thing.” He offers me and Rhett ear pods and slips one into his own ear.
“I’ll be able to hear everything you say. We will also be monitoring you for stress. If we feel it necessary, we can likewise call a halt. As can your mate.”
“You good, baby?” Rhett asks, his worried eyes on mine.
They’re all being so kind and gentle with me. Cohen never gave me any such care or respect. I want to do this. Hedeservesto have me do this. I focus on the outcome; on the difference this can make. “Yes. Let’s begin.”
There are two seats, but Rhett doesn’t give me an option. He sits, before tugging me into his lap with a set to his jaw that says this isn’t open to negotiation.
“Want me to purr, baby?”
I nod, choked up. “Yes, but quietly. So it won’t interfere with whatever I pick up.”
“No problem.” His touch is light and comforting. It provides a buffer.
Seeing me settled and ready, Peters leaves the room.
The sound is amplified through my earpiece as I hear him enter the interrogation room. Shortly after the door opens again. I hear the shuffle of footsteps and a faint clank.
Steeling myself, I lift my eyes.
There he is. General Cohen. My tormentor is being escorted into the room, his cuffs hooked to a sturdy-looking attachment bolted to the tabletop. He is bigger, although the simple T-shirt and loose pants he’s wearing hang off his frame. His face is swollen and misshapen, and his feet are bare against the tiled floor.
My reaction to him is physical: elevated breathing and heart rate, sweat breaking out and a rush of adrenaline that sets my teeth chattering. This terrible man had such a hold over me for so long.
Rhett purrs. Tells me how brave I am. How I can leave if I need to.
He gives the choice to me, and that steadies me and my resolve.
The questions begin. Simple ones. Nothing intended to trip him up… yet.
“You have asked him these questions before… he is irritated… and wary… not answering any questions leads to being taken back to his cell and pain.” I relay. “He is trying to remember which answers he gave you before, but the pain and lack of sleep are making it difficult.”
Soon, the questions turn more detailed. Troop movements. Operations. Details of power players. He might not answer, buthis thoughts do, and I tell them everything, including whether I can verify their correctness.
We are an hour in when Cohen’s jaw suddenly tightens and his head swings to the left. He stares straight into the monitor—it feels like he’s looking right at me, his obsession with me seeping through the wall.
“Where is she?” Cohen snarls, jerking against the restraints.
I jump, fearing he’s about to break free and get to me. The urge to lash out, to shove something vile back into his mind, is almost irresistible. My fingers dig into Rhett’s sleeve. “He knows,” I whisper. “He knows I’m not dead.”
