He wasnt a guy normally given to loads of introspection, but there was nothing to do in this hellhole but think. The longer he remained their special guest, the more the twin demons of doubt and fear eroded his confidence, unraveled the threads holding together his sanity.
But maybe losing his mind wouldnt be a bad deal.
As footsteps neared him, he lifted his chin slightly to peer at the group through the fall of his long, dirty red hair. He wished he hadnt, because even more than Beryl, the sight of three men, two in lab coats and one meathead that was obviously the hired muscle, chilled his soul the way nothing else could have.
Except for their heated conversation.
. . . better be glad Im not making a phone call, one of the men said coldly. He was average in height and looks, brown hair. Outside of this place, nobody would give him a second glance.
Do it, Bowman, Beryl retorted with a self-satisfied smirk. And see who he blames. Youre the employee, not me. Youll face his wrath for letting a test subject get away.
Dr. Gene Bowman of NewLife Technology. The former supervisor of Jaxon Laws new mate, Kira Locke. Sweat rolled down Arics face.
Bowman remained unmoved. If you honestly think spreading your legs for some demon is going to protect you from any fallout from what youve done, youre sadly deluded. This project is much bigger and more significant than your petty games. What were on the verge of accomplishing is huge, and hell let nothing get in the wayespecially not a slutty, mediocre witch whos easily replaced in his bed.
Aric missed Beryls pissed-off retort. His brain was too busy reeling at the overload of information. Demon? Was that a slur against Orson Chappell, or had Bowman meant demon in the literal sense? Anything was possibleincluding the idea that Chappell was not the head of the snake, something Nick and the team had feared. Whoever the head slimeball might be, Beryl was sleeping with him.
Bowman turned to the muscleman and the other guy in the lab coat. Get him down from there and take him to the lab for prep.
Before that moment, hed only thought hed known fear.
The taller doctor and the meathead released his wrists, allowing him to drop. Arms dead from little circulation, limp as cooked noodles, he face-planted on the dirty concrete floor with his legs still attached to the wall, spread-eagle.
It was the single most degrading moment of his life.
Then the doc and the muscle guy hauled him up, easy as pie considering all the weight hed lost, one taking him under the arms, one getting his ankles. Carried faceup, naked body on display and nobody caring, his carcass no better than a number to write down in their sordid files.
After an ascent in an elevator, he tried to keep track of the twists and turns they made, but he was simply too exhausted. Disheartened. Several minutes later, he found himself in a stark space that distinctly resembled an operating room.
It was then he noticed the drain in the tiled floor.
When they placed him on his back on a steel table, he began to struggle, attempted to call his fire or his wolf. Anything. But the gifts he usually cursed had deserted him when they counted most, and his rebellion was short-lived. A needle slid into the crook of his right arm and a cold burn seeped through the limb, stretched icy fingers across his chest. Suddenly he had trouble breathing, whether from the medication or sheer panic he didnt know.
The freeze slowly crept across his stomach, to his groin and legs. With the cold was the realization that he couldnt move at allthough his mind remained aware.
Bowmans hated, innocuous face appeared over him, smiling faintly. Console yourself with the thought that this is for the greater triumph of mankind. Now relax. To the other doctor, he said, Note that the experimentation on number five fifty-two has commenced.
Wh-whatre you doin to me? he slurred. His tongue felt heavy as a wet blanket, his thoughts growing sluggish. He peered at a bright light overhead and it quadrupled, as did the faces above him.
No one answered his question. His legs were spread and fastened with restraints, and so were his wrists at his sides.
A scalpel appeared in Bowmans hand as he continued to dictate the procedure and findings to someone Aric couldnt see. Subject is malnourished and dehydrated, with cuts and lesions in the late stages of infection over forty percent
of his body. Taking samples of the subjects DNA and semen to determine their viability to our cause.
Semen? What the fuck?
Percentage of probability of scheduling subject five fifty-two for termination? a robotlike voice intoned.
Will advise.
Thank you, doctor.
Yeah? Fuck you very much, doc.
Focused on his task, Bowman answered with only a grunt as he lowered the scalpel to the center of Arics chest, just a millimeter south of his sternum. Arics instinct was to struggle, try to yank on his bonds, get his hands free and torch them all, but again, absolutely nothing happened. He could only watch as the small blade sliced gradually into his skin, parting the surface like hot butter. There was pressure but no pain, an odd and frightening thing when a maniac had total access to his body and he couldnt do a damned thing to stop the asshole.