Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I had been listening to the incessant noise for what felt like years. But when I started counting the drips, I knew that only minutes, then hours had passed. Every five seconds, water splatted. Or maybe it was blood. Once more, I struggled to pry my eyelids open, but only managed a quivering slit. My whole body felt weird. Sluggish. Responding several seconds too late. I was forced to wait until my brain decided to cooperate again.
Sometimes I heard the rustling of clothes. The soft murmur of voices. One time, there was arguing. Loud enough to penetrate the bubble I seemed to be stuck in. “She’s not a threat,” yelled a voice. But my mind was playing cruel tricks on me. The owner of that voice had sounded familiar. I knew the person well, and yet, I didn’t. I knew his deep voice had brought me a moment of comfort. The feeling popped a second later.
Who are you? I wanted to ask. But my tongue was attached to the roof of my mouth. For some reason, his name eluded me. All names did. Even my own. It was there one second, and gone the next. The only thing I knew was that counting calmed my mind. So I once again lost myself in numbers as the water—or blood—continued to drip, drip, drip.
“Why isn’t she awake yet?”
“Give her time. With all she went through out there, then the surgery and unexpected complications, sleep is the best medicine for her body.”
“But you promised that she would—”
“I’m a doctor, not a scientist. If you need help understanding the complex nature of this memory serum, I’d suggest speaking with Dr. Bradfield again.”
That familiar deep voice, still a strange comfort to me yet clearly upset, muttered an indecipherable reply, then sighed. After a beat of silence, I heard retreating footsteps and the snick of a door shutting. I waited for the dripping to start. It didn’t. After listening to the sound for hours upon hours, maybe even days, it was the only constant in my life. To have that disappear was frightening.
“It’s okay. Take a deep breath for me.” At the soothing female voice, I struggled to obey. “That’s it. Just take your time. You’re safe now.”
Safe now? What did that mean? Was there a time when I wasn’t safe?
My eyes moved. I managed to lift one lid, then the other. Too bright. I shut them.
“You’ve been asleep for awhile. It’ll take time for your body to adjust. Here, take my hand.”
For a moment, my mind wrestled with her request. A part of me wished to disobey, to ball my hand tightly at my side. But a larger part heeded her words. I raised my arm, the movement much more difficult than I’d anticipated. My fingers touched smooth skin, then a hand wrapped around mine.
“We’ll go slowly. Let your body adapt to its new surroundings.” As the hand gently pulled me into a sitting position, something about the word “slow” bothered me. “There. How about you try opening your eyes again.”
I did without question, because I didn’t like being in the dark—I knew that much. The room was blinding white at first, but I blinked until colors and shapes appeared. There were light gray walls behind a round silver table, a charcoal sofa beside a slate blue door, and . . . a middle-aged woman. She was smiling. It took a second for my mouth to cooperate, but I smiled back.
“I’m glad you’re awake, Lune,” she said, releasing my hand.
I blinked. Lune. Was that my name? It felt . . . right.
A small sigh of relief escaped me. “Me too,” I croaked, and she immediately handed me a cup of water. Over the glass rim, I searched her face for traces of familiarity but found none. Laugh lines surrounded her green eyes, though, which put me at ease. She wore a long white smock, and her brown hair was pulled back, revealing high cheekbones.
“Where am I?” I asked, glancing around the room again. There was a white-and-gray patterned rug on the floor, the only decoration. “Is this where I live?”
The woman hesitated. “This is your home for now, yes.” Home. The word felt empty. Like this room. “But I’ll let Dr. Moore answer the rest of your questions. He knows more than I do.”
I nodded, settling against the bed’s cushioned headboard. The back of my neck began to burn, causing me to wince. My fingers went to the spot and I frowned. There was a tender, raised mark at the base of my skull, just under the hairline. “What’s this?” I looked at the nameless woman, trying not to show my alarm.
She must have seen the emotion because she gently patted my leg. “Something unpleasant, but I removed it. You’re safe now. No harm will come to you.”
There was that word again. Safe. Why did a part of me not believe her?
Rising from a metal chair next to my bed, she offered me her hand again. I took it after a quick moment of hesitation. “Now, let’s get you on your feet. It might be difficult at first, but that’s what I’m here for. I’m Dr. Stacey, by the way.”
I slowly swung my stiff legs over the bed, taking in the pale blue, knee-length dress I wore. A hospital gown, maybe? But it was the color that gave me pause. “Do I like blue?”
“I don’t know. Do you think you like blue?”
Without hesitation, which surprised me, I answered, “No.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re experiencing a phantom emotion,” she muttered, almost to herself. Her gaze cleared and a small smile graced her rosey lips. “There’s a change of clothing in the bathroom. Let’s go see what color they are.”
This suggestion put a grin on my face. Getting out of bed sounded like a great idea. My feet hit the floor and I jumped up. Dr. Stacey caught me under the arms as my legs gave out. Pins and needles stabbed the bottoms of my feet and quickly worked their way upward. I groaned, flinching from the pain. “What’s,” I panted, “happening?”
“I’m sorry, dear, I should have warned you first.” She positioned my right arm over her shoulders and let me lean on her as my legs continued to burn. “You’ve been in bed for the last two weeks, so it’s normal for your legs to be weak.”
Two weeks? What happened to me?
I glanced down at my trembling limbs and saw a strange boot on my left foot. How did that get there? I could have sworn both of my feet were bare. Was something wrong with my memory?
Dr. Stacey must have noticed my confusion. “It’s just an ankle boot. You suffered a hairline fracture, but your ankle should be good as new in a few weeks.”
Weeks. Why was I starting to dislike that word? I bottled my growing list of questions. Sealing them up would probably be easier than prying answers out of this nervous woman. Yes, that’s what had been bothering me. The more questions I asked, the more nervous she seemed.
The trek to the attached bathroom took a few minutes, which put an impatient frown on my face. My body craved something in there, though I wasn’t sure what. My skin practically hummed with anticipation. When we finally reached the all-white room accented in silver, tears stung my eyes. Startled at the strong reaction, I blinked several times to clear my vision.
Dr. Stacey propped me against the white marble countertop, then rummaged inside a linen closet. She pulled out flared black pants and a forest green shirt. I nodded my approval. Next, she switched on the shower, saying something about sponge baths not being thorough enough. I stopped listening as my gaze locked onto the spitting showerhead.
Water.
It reminded me of the constant dripping that had kept me company over the last couple weeks. Somehow my body knew, even if my brain didn’t, that I liked water.
I pushed off the counter and headed toward the shower stall, completely enraptured. The bathroom door softly clicked shut. Dr. Stacey must have given up on me responding. Whoops. At a more satisfying speed, I stripped naked and stepped under the downpour.
Hot!
Perfect.
No. Heaven.
Maybe I didn’t just like water; maybe I loved it.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I never wanted to leave this small square of utter bliss. Half an hour later, my skin tingled with cleanliness, but my legs s
tarted to complain in earnest. I was so weak. I really didn’t like that word. Reluctantly turning the water off, I searched for a towel and found a fluffy white stack on the counter. I dried my now slightly pink self, then froze.
What did I look like? How could somebody forget their own face? For some reason, my fingers shook as they wiped away steam from the bathroom mirror. Was I hideous? But when my reflection appeared, I chuckled at the irrational fear.
“Not too bad,” I murmured, wagging my eyebrows. I squinted for a closer look at a fresh scar on my forehead. It wasn’t awful-looking, but would take time to fade. I turned my head. There was an older scar on my left temple in the shape of a C.
“What the—?”
I looked down at my arms, then my knuckles and palms. Scars. They were covered in scars. Unwrapping the towel, I found more on my stomach. Long ones, like something had raked open my flesh. I swiveled around and peered into the mirror at my back. Horror swamped me.
I screamed.
What happened to me? What happened to me? What happened to me?
“She’s been in there for hours. I’m going to pick the lock.”
“But Dr. Moore said—”
“I don’t care what he said! He doesn’t know her like I do.”
I registered their words but they didn’t sink in. I was too busy asking myself questions that I didn’t have answers to. For the last hour, pressure had steadily built behind my eyes. My head felt ready to burst. I continued to rock myself where I’d curled up on the floor against the wall. I had lost track of time. My mind wouldn’t stop circling like a vulture searching for prey. Every single time, it came up empty.
Empty.
My brain is empty of memories.
I choked out a strangled sob.
“Heaven help me, I’m going in!” a voice shouted. The door handle jiggled and I clutched the towel to my chest. Had I instinctively locked it? Did they give me these countless scars? Did they destroy the flesh on my back? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.
I heard a click as the lock unlatched. The door swung inward, slowly revealing the tallest person I had ever met. At least, I thought so. I couldn’t remember meeting anyone other than Dr. Stacey. He took a step inside and I froze. He did, too. My gaze traveled up, up, up to his face, then ran over his handsome features—square jaw, full lips, dark brown hair that slightly curled on his forehead. And his eyes. His eyes . . .
They were gold.
A switch flipped on inside me, one born of self-preservation. Fear poured through my veins. Wave after wave. I was drowning, suffocating under the weight of his stare. So intense. So . . . predatory. My heart raced out of control. I gasped for breath as my chest tightened. Despite how scared I was, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his.
Then I watched in disbelief as his expression crumbled. Pain etched deep lines into his face. He retreated, but not before I saw a sheen steal over those golden eyes, like he was holding back tears. Why did the sight make my own tears spill down my cheeks?
An hour later, when I’d calmed enough for Dr. Stacey to help me into bed, I lay awake, picturing the handsome man’s face. I memorized every single detail. Because I never wanted to feel fear like that again—the all-consuming, controlling every molecule of my being kind. It was the first thing I knew that I hated.
Fear of losing control.
And now that my fear had a face, I was determined not to forget it.
Two days passed without another unexpected visit from the tall stranger. Dr. Stacey didn’t mention the incident, so neither did I, despite my curiosity. I had been overwhelmed by the ordeal, and the thought of asking questions made me feel . . . vulnerable.
While my body used the time to heal and rest, I continued to scour my brain for memories that weren’t there. When headaches formed from thinking too hard, I took showers, never growing tired of the warm water. Dr. Stacey brought me something called a puzzle, but by the third day, I couldn’t sit on my butt for another second. As if in agreement, my leg bounced up and down at a rapid rate. I had acquired the new tic shortly after the bathroom debacle—at least, I thought it was new. Now, every time I sat, I bounced.
When my one visitor came in with breakfast, I was already dressed, leg bouncing away. Dr. Stacey prepared to greet me as usual, but I beat her to it. “I’m ready for answers. Can we go see Dr. Moore today?” I had planned my words carefully. I didn’t want him coming here. More than anything, I wanted out of this room, even for a few minutes. It was starting to feel like a prison cell—not that I knew what a prison felt like.
She nodded, setting my food down on the silver table. “I’ll let him know that you wish to talk. But,” she continued, watching me carefully, “there’s the matter of your guard.”
“Guard?” My brows pulled together.
“It’s for your safety. Because of your history, some of the people here are on edge. They think—” Her lips pursed as she focused on my glass of orange juice.
“They think what?” I asked softly, urging her to tell me. I can handle it. No more meltdowns, I almost added but didn’t.
With a sigh, she moved to the bed and gently squeezed my shoulder as if to lend comfort. I tried not to stiffen. “They think you’re dangerous, dear.”
My mouth formed an O. It was safer than laughing.
“Anyway, I’ll inform your guard to escort you to Dr. Moore’s office. Be ready in an hour?”
I nodded enthusiastically and refrained from blurting that I was ready now. She left soon after, making sure I took pain meds for my ankle since I’d be walking around today. I still didn’t know how I’d received the injury.
While I waited for my guard—whatever or whoever that meant—I paced. Every other step, my ankle boot thumped against the floor. Minutes before the hour was up, my fingers became fidgety as well, which reminded me that I hadn’t brushed my hair. They kept busy by weaving a braid down my back. With nothing left to do, I sat on the bed and drummed my foot against the floor. Tap tap tap tap tap. The rhythm was oddly soothing.
“Well, that’s new.”
I whipped my head up to discover the door open. Leaning against the frame was a tall figure wearing boots, black pants, and a form-hugging gray tee. My eyes went straight to the powerful forearms currently crossed over a well-defined chest. Embarrassment scorched my cheeks at how blatantly I’d been gawking. There was no undoing it though. My gaze finally landed where it should have in the first place.
At the sight of his face, I sucked in a gasp and jerked to a stand. Him. The man with the familiar voice and predatory gold eyes. Didn’t he know how to knock? Was that not a custom around here? Dr. Stacey did though. I almost told him so, but my mouth didn’t seem to be working at the moment.
So I stared at him. What else could I do? Having memorized his facial features, I wasn’t as afraid this time as I held his gaze, determined to control the emotion prodding at me. What was it about those eyes that had scared me so much? Should I listen to that instinct and scream for help? When I remained silent, he pushed off the doorjamb and took a step inside. Then another. The urge to run wrapped around me, but I held my ground.
A couple more steps and he was close enough to touch. I swallowed past the tense ache in my throat as his nearness, as his overwhelming gaze became too much. Control slipped through my fingers. Fear flooded in and I struggled to breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and retreated until my legs bumped against the bed.
Trapped.
No, no, no.
“Breathe, little bird. Just breathe.”
The combination of his familiar voice and the casual way he’d said the nickname startled me into inhaling shakily. My eyes snapped open. “What did you say?”
Something happened to his face then. It lit up, like he’d been granted his greatest wish. The most charming smile graced his lips—one side tipped up more than the other. At the sight, my stomach fluttered. Before I could make sense of the strange feeling, his large hands cupped my cheeks. Shocked at their wa
rmth and his electric touch, every inch of me froze.
“You had me so scared, Lune,” he whispered, sounding heartbroken and relieved in the same breath. His thumbs swept over my cheekbones. My heart skipped in response. Okay, this needed to stop. Now. My senses were overloaded and I couldn’t think. I placed my hands on his chest to push him away, but he pulled me closer, saying, “Thank God, you’re alright.” Then he pressed his lips to my forehead.
For one heart-stopping moment, my body melted against his as if happy to be reunited. What was wrong with me? First he’d barged into my bathroom, then my room, then kissed me, and a part of me wanted to accept that without question? Anger sprang up like a roaring fire. I took control of myself and shoved him. Hard. He moved less than an inch. What the—? I wasn’t that weak, was I? When his hands dropped and he pulled back a few more inches, I did what needed to be done.
I slapped his face.
The sound cracked through the gaping silence. My palm stung, but I felt a whole lot better, like I’d been wanting to do that for a long time. Was I a violent person? I didn’t dwell on the worrisome thought. There was space between us and I could breathe again. That was what mattered.
And, more importantly, I was in control.
I crossed my arms, refusing to apologize for my actions. He had stepped over invisible lines and I’d clearly shown him where the boundaries were. His expression flipped from shock and confusion to hurt and sadness. I fisted my hands, determined not to feel bad.
He looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . I thought you recognized the nickname, so I assumed . . .” He rubbed at his neck for several moments as he internally struggled with what to say next. Or maybe he was restraining himself from hitting me back? A spark of fear flared in my gut. There was no way I could defend myself against someone his size. He would crush me.
His eyes snapped to mine as if he’d felt my panic. When he reached for me again, I flinched away, almost toppling backward onto the bed. His hand froze midair. I watched with growing alarm as it curled into a fist. “Please, don’t,” he whispered, the same words that were on my own tongue. His arm lowered. “I would never hurt you, Lune. Ever. Please don’t be afraid of me.”
Adaptive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 2) Page 10
