Page 54 of Ethereally Redeemed

Nausea gathers deep in my core as I look at Grey, horrortwisting my expression. “Our suspicions were right. He did experiments on children, watching their behaviors for some sick and twisted satisfaction.”

I flip the page and read an entry aloud.“I wonder how long he can endure if I leave him chained to this room for hours. No one would miss him, anyway. The doctorate at the institution will examine him when he arrives late next week.”

Confused, I stare at the letters, wondering who he is talking about. I never noticed anyone coming here that didn’t work here, but surely it must have been during one of the monthly games when none of the staff or guards were permitted. That would have drawn less suspicion.

Grey grabs another journal from the cluttered desk, his expression grim as he flips through the pages, looking for anything of value. While he scans the journals in his hands, I focus on the ones I’m holding.

Observation 157.

Resilience. Obedience. Response to fear. A fascination at observing these children act in a house of dolls. My dolls. And no one will take them from me unless I allow them to.

Observation 379.

2021.

Traits desirable—obedience, resilience, recklessness. How are their reactions to the enhancement program?

“Grey,” I warn, and he leans in to look over my shoulder, his breath tickling my ear. “This entry talks about Dankworth Institute’s program.”

“Let me see,” he demands, and I give him the journal, a piece of paper falling off in the process.

I pick it up as Grey starts reading the entry aloud.

“The meeting with the doctorate went exceptionally well. His funds, along with my inheritance, allow me to continue thisbusiness, keeping it private from authorities’ eyes who believe it is a mere orphanage in the middle of nowhere. They always leave me alone, and now even more thanks to Emilio Ricci. In return, I will provide him with my utmost candidates. They depart next week.”

Bile surges up my throat, leaving a sour, acrid taste that lingers unpleasantly on my tongue. A shiver of icy dread sweeps over me, making me shudder and igniting a primal need to escape this enclosed space.

I look down at the note I picked up from the ground, my eyes widening when I see the words written upon it. Or rather, the names.

Multiple unknown names which I do not recognize, only heard in passing when I lived at the manor.

And at the bottom, my name.Lily Blight—NAYA.

My skin cracks apart, as if my soul is tearing its way free, crushing me beneath these enclosing walls.

“I was a part of those candidates.”

This time, I fall to my knees, trying to keep the tide of vomit from pouring out of me. I’m panting by the time Grey lays his hand on mine, coming to sit down on his knees along with me as he takes me in his hold.

“I was a part of those desirable candidates he sent to Dankworth Institute. I mean, I suspected it was something like this all along. But reading it makes it so much fucking worse.”

I close my eyes, breathing through my nose while trying to figure out what the fuck I’m feeling.

“Fuck,” he curses.

I’m spiraling out of control, my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts that make each inhale feel like shards of glass slicing me open. I’m at a loss of control as panic consumes me. I clutch a nearby shelf, desperately trying to anchor myself when it feels as if the world is hunting me down, wanting to drown mewith all its might.

“Naya!” A voice sounds far away, and though I know it’s Grey’s, I can no longer discern where he is in the midst of the darkness taking over.

I try to respond, but it’s as if it’s impossible. My throat is parched, and no sound escapes it.

“Little doll!” His voice is more insistent now, but I can’t speak—can’t fucking breathe from the panic clogging my entire being.

I cannot breathe. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to—

Something hard clamps around my throat, constricting my breaths even more, but it’s the controlled way in which it holds me that brings me back to the present, allowing me to see Grey. He towers above me, the dim light casting shadows across his face and those sharp cheekbones. Leaning down so he’s eye to eye with me, his hair falls over his brow that partially obscures his intense gaze. His hand steadily grips me, and his eyes cut through me like the best sort of punishment.

“Calm down,” he commands, and as if in shock, I do as he says, letting him bring me back to the present with the loss of air caused by him.

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