Page 15 of Guarded from Corruption

Plus. Why am I thinking about this now? The last thing I should be thinking about is touching a man. Especially one who has reason to dislike me, even if he claims he doesn’t.

Still, my hand inches over toward Niall’s of its own volition. Before I can stop myself, I touch his fingers, and his eyes flare in surprise. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gently takes my hand in his, and the warmth and comfort of it helps me breathe again.

“I want to do it,” I say quietly. Then a little more strongly, I add, “I know I need to.”

Niall gives my hand a little squeeze as Dante says kindly, “Okay. Why don’t you start at the beginning? I might interrupt to ask a question here and there, but don’t stress about remembering everything. Alright?”

Before Dante and Rhiannon got to his apartment, Niall explained that since Dante is their official team leader, he’ll be the one leading the questioning. “Not that I can’t do it,” he told me. “But we thought since I know you, it might make it harder if I’m the one asking all the questions.”

I’m not sure if he meant harder for him or me, and I didn’t ask. Honestly, I’d rather Dante ask the questions, so I don’t have to look Niall in the eye while I talk about how strange, masked men touched me.

Exhaling slowly, I meet Dante’s gaze. “I woke up and there was someone standing over me.”

With the first words, I’m thrown right back into it. Some small noise waking me up, seeing the figure in the dark, not believing what I was seeing. “Just for a second, I thought it was a dream. Then I smelled him. And I heard him breathing. That’s when I knew it was real.”

My breath catches at the memory—the paralyzing fear warring with the frantic instinct to flee. “I couldn’t move at first. I was too shocked. And then… he grabbed me. Covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream. And he injected me with something. That’s when I started fighting, but it was too late.”

Dante’s face is all hard lines and dark shadows, but his voice is gentle as he asks, “How did you know it was a man?”

“His smell, at first. It was just… his body odor. And then how strong he was. How easily he held me down. I mean…” I glance at Niall and he looks absolutely furious, which oddly makes me feel better. “I suppose it could have been a woman. But I really don’t think so.”

“And after that?” Dante asks.

“I woke up there.” My nails dig into Niall’s hand as a shudder ripples through me. “And I couldn’t move.”

Chest tight, heart racing, I tell them about waking up in a strange room that looked scarily similar to a hospital room. How I was held down by padded cuffs around my wrists and ankles. How I got sick from the drugs lingering in my system and a grim-faced nurse cleaned me up without a word.

I keep my eyes fixed on the coffee table as I tell them about the injections they gave me that kept me sedated, but still aware. About the tests they ran on me that first day, ones I could identify but couldn’t understand.

“Everything was foggy,” I recall, “but I knew what they were doing. I just couldn’t figure out why, at first. Why did they want to test my heart function? Or my lung capacity? And they took so much blood. Vials and vials of it.”

Dante scribbles a few things on his tablet before setting it down on his lap. “Was it always nurses? Or were there other people?”

“It was mostly nurses. At least, I assume they were. They were all in scrubs, like the ones I had on. But there was a man who seemed like a doctor. He ran most of the tests, and he knew what he was doing. If he wasn’t a doctor, he definitely had medical training.”

“Would you be able to describe him? If we brought a sketch artist?”

“I don’t think so. He had a surgical mask and cap on. And glasses. So there wasn’t—” Frustration wells up, thickening my throat. “I wish I could. But they were so careful.”

“It’s fine,” Niall soothes as he rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. “You’re fine. Whatever you remember is fine.”

But it doesn’t feel fine as I get closer to the part I really don’t want to talk about.

When I’m recalling the sedatives and the tests and the sullen nurses, it’s easier to be clinical about it. I can talk about the vision and hearing tests they forced me to do without feeling like I’m about to be sick.

It’s easier to be detached—to look at myself as just a patient—when I’m describing the frequency of the injections and how long they lasted.

“I don’t think they wanted me completely out, because that would be harder to monitor,” I explain. “A deeper sedation would require supplemental oxygen, a heart monitor, and someone watching at all times. But I was already restrained, so I think they just wanted to keep me calm. Quiet. They didn’t want me?—”

The memories slam into me, a tsunami of terror and panic and rage. All the worst parts, that I’ve desperately been trying to contain, all bursting out at once.

My lungs don’t want to work. Breathing seems an impossibility.

“Jade?” Niall gently squeezes my hand. “Do you want a break?”

Yes.

No. I’m strong. Other women have been through so much worse. I owe them—I owe the other women I left behind in the facility—to finish this story.

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