Page 84 of Ravage

"Of course we'll be able to," Grey replies confidently. "We will figure it out. We won't let those bastards win."

Damon opens his mouth to speak but the familiar sound signaling the end of free time cuts him off. He frowns, glancing over at me.

"Keep your cell on you. We'll charge them tomorrow, but for now, we'll regroup by text message. Grey's on watch duty tonight so he'll be close by."

"Ass duty," I correct playfully, unable to hide a grin as Grey reaches down and grabs me to emphasize his agreement.

I'm in line on my way back from the showers when I spot two guards walking toward our group, their faces tight with intent.

When our guard stops, we all pause behind him, watching as they whisper to each other. One of the guards looks down the line, my heart stopping when his eyes fall and stay on me.

"White!" I hear my name being called, our guard turning and pointing to me. "With them." He motions to the other guards, my throat seizing up as I slowly step out of line.

My fight-or-flight reflex is definitely kicking in, running through a hundred ways to potentially get out of another kidnapping. We had every single scenario covered—except for shower time because it seemed unlikely that I would be targeted due to being in a group full of witnesses.

I approach them hesitantly, quickly looking over my shoulder at the rest of the group. Maybe one of them can sound the alarm somehow, but there's no one in line close enough to Cirque des Morts.

What I wouldn't give to have Jillian in my group.

Before I rip my gaze back to the guards, I find Eliana's eyes, her soft features curling into a supportive smile.

Maybe… just maybe.

There's no time to return the gesture, my feet pausing as I stand in front of the guards.

"Mr. Whittingham would like a word," one says, jerking his head to the other end of the corridor.

They don't wait for a response, turning and walking with my arms in their rough grasp. I have no choice but to follow as they drag me along, taking deep breaths to calm myself.

A few minutes later, I find myself at the edge of Whittingham's desk, his cold, dead eyes boring into me.

It's fairly dark in here, only the light from his desk lamp and a lit citrus smelling candle casting any illumination. I nearly gag as I look carefully at the candle, spotting a picture of the receptionist taped on the glass candle holder—a gift from her apparently.

"Ms. White," he greets disinterestedly. "I trust you're doing well since your episode."

Unprecedented anger washes through me at his words. Just like how he announced my arrival back to the other patients, he's making me out to be the problem.

It's insulting. We both know what really happened downstairs, yet he pretends I'm a martyr to my mental health battles.

"You mean since you drugged me and threw me into the hands of doctors to torture?" I snap back. "I'm feeling peachy-fucking-fine."

He looks unfazed, shuffling some paperwork on his desk. "Well, needless to say, it appears their methods weren't very successful."

Okay, I was wrong. Pretending it didn't happen was bad enough, but to insinuate that I'm unfixable despite what I went through is a whole other level.

"I guess that's why those particular methods were largely banned in medical practice," I fire back. "But if you disagree, feel free to volunteer yourself."

His eyes snap up to mine, the hard exterior finally cracking.

I'm playing with fire—I shouldn't piss off the one person who could hurt me the most, but I can't seem to stop it.

Violent thoughts and images flash through my mind quickly, overwhelming me. My hands curl into fists, trembling as I try desperately to calm myself like Grey would be able to.

It's shaking again. The bucket is full, and I take two deep breaths, relaxing my shoulders as I picture Damon in my mind.

Control your emotions. Stay in control. Don't let him win by setting you off.

"I'm not the one who killed their father," Whittingham murmurs. "But I wouldn't expect rationality from someone likeyou."

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