Page 8 of Forget Me Twice

Sebastian’s dark blue eyes are locked firmly on me, their study of my rumpled, bleary-eyed appearance just as chilly as that summons. The dark, expensively tailored suit is perfectly fitted and pressed as always. His hair is immaculate, his tie a rich red, like a dark swathe of blood. He looks every inch the politician that the public sees and fawns over every day.

The rest of the Junior Council—who also happen to make up my Crew for day-to-day operations—are standing stiffly nearby. I know they’ll stay behind out of team solidarity, but I don’t blame them for not being eager to face down a pissed off Gray Man. It’s fucking terrifying and if he’s not wanting an audience for this, you just know it’s gonna beA Really Bad Time.

I wonder briefly if one of the spineless Suits from last night could have ratted me out for leaving the Compound again. Instinctively, I start to run through my memory of last night’s duty roster so I have a list of names to give Rhett and Knox to play with. Someone’s definitely snitched and I’m going to find out who.

When I hear a quiet throat clear, I blink to refocus. As I do, I realize that the bottleneck at the door has finished clearing, and only my Crew and Dominic remain behind as potential witnesses to my incoming verbal scourging.

At least Ihopeit’s only verbal.

During my first few years under Sebastian’stutelage, I was made to participate in what my new guardian liked to refer to as a ‘conditioning program’. But let’s call a spade a spade—it was months and months of carefully-scripted, physical and psychological torture.

When I’d been plucked off the streets, I’d already been having trouble processing certain things thanks to the head injury. The training’s purpose was to sever those remaining connections and reflexes. The end result, of course, being the forging of an unbreakable, untraceable, and hack-proof biological database of all organizational resources and information. A shell of a girl, only able to experience echoes of anger, fear and embarrassment. Disconnected from true feelings of affection and joy.

A vital asset that belonged solely tohim.

The visible marks I cover up with tattoos. The rest is carefully concealed beneath a fucked up sense of humor and a borderline death wish.

So yeah, I’ll straight up volunteer for one of Sebastian’s soul-crushing monologues over what I know is the alternative.

Nohesitation.

His wrathful gaze is still very cold and very fixed on me. I may as well be the only subordinate still in the room.

He gestures towards me. “Care to explainthis, Sabine?” His tone is firm and deadly calm. I almost find that worse than shouting.

A vague question, but he rarely ever uses my name these days, and I fixate on that. I haven’t exactly been giving him many reasons to be proud of me lately. Perhaps there’s a chance I can come out of this relatively unscathed.

I go to swallow, but my tongue is thick and my throat feels as rough and dry as sandpaper.God, I am so dehydrated.My head gives another vicious throb.

For once, I’m unsure what exactly he’s referring to, so instead I clasp my hands together and attempt a demure smile.

“Explain what, Boss?”

I swear I’m nottryingto sound flippant, but I’m really not a good actress. The dark shift in his mood is an almost tangible thing. I really should have known better than to hazard a gamble like that, knowing Sebastian can read me like a fucking book. The expression now taking over his face is no longer ice cold—no, he’s positivelyglowering.

Even granite-faced Dominic, who has worked for The Gray Man for almost a decade, subtly leans away as if he can somehow physically dodge the anger now rolling off his boss. The disgruntled glance the older man shoots me says it all:You’ve really fucked up this time, kid.

I’m not surprised. It’s been a long time since my superiors have looked at me with anything other than sheer disappointment.

In addition to being an ill-adjusted, unfeeling mess, the jagged scar I wear across the left side of my skull means that over the years my headspace has become an increasingly dangerous place to cohabitate.

Each waking minute brings with it the misery of my accident’s curse. What started out as infrequent headaches when I was younger have since devolved into a chaotic jumble of constantly firing synapses. It’s become a daily struggle for my brain to perform even the most simple of chemical reactions without pain and overstimulation.

Finding a way to deal with my trainingandmy trauma-given gift has birthed a steady routine of risk-taking behaviors. After much experimenting, I found that a mixture of recreational and prescription drugs, as well as alcohol, somewhat muted the mayhem inside my head. Well, temporarily. Like most vices, it’s not perfect, but it gets me through the day.

If I’m careful not to don’t overdo it, I can usually pass myself off as a version of a functioning human being. And not the barely-concealed substance abuser I actually am.

It’s the best I can do when I can’t find myself a healthy shot of adrenaline. Uppers. Racing. Fighting. Fucking. Killing.

The call of the void.

It seems that my brain gets especially drunk off of those small boosts of serotonin and dopamine, enough that it forgets it’s supposed to be making any extra noise. For a time at least.

The only thing that doesn’t work is seeing my own skin bleed. The Belgian took care of that.

But I havenodoubts that if I wasn’t Sebastian’s ward and asset—my constant thrill-seeking stunts and shaky semblance of self-control would have earned me permanent accommodation at the bottom of the Lexington Canals a dozen times over by now.

As if to remind me of my legacy of poor self-preservation skills, someone settles a large hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. The whiff of subtle, spicy cologne tells me the hand belongs to Jax. He never leaves me alone to deal with his father’s displeasure. Not if he can help it. He’s still fiercely supportive; even now while I’ve been off busy self-destructing.

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