Page 23 of Heroes & Hitmen
No shots fired. No mess to clean.
And yet somehow, I still feel dirty.
CHAPTER 8
Miley
I stareat myself in the mirror as I run a brush through the ends of my hair, trying to ignore the trembling in my fingers while I tame the last few flyaway strands. My reflection is calm and composed, makeup flawless, hair pulled back in my signature satin bow. On the outside, I’m polished as ever. Inside, I’m a live wire, coiled tight and ready to snap.
I’ve been dreading this day almost as much as the upcoming full moon. In a few minutes, I’ll be heading up to the fortieth floor of the Tower, where I’ll undergo theprocedure– the final step to prepare for my pairing with Elias Burke.
Not counting annual check-ups, I’ve only had to go to the medical floor a handful of times, and the place gives me the creeps. It’s all bright lights, white walls, and the pungent smell of antiseptic. Exam rooms for medical care, where doctors assist when injuries go beyond what shifter healing can manage. Laboratories where they do research, looking for ways to bypass nature and control what should be instinct. It’s a place I’d rather avoid, but my appointment there today is mandatory.
I set my brush down on the vanity with a soft clink, rising to my feet and checking my reflection one last time in the mirror. Poised, primped, polished– the perfect image of a docile daughter, pretending she’s not being slowly strangled by the golden leash around her neck.
Padding out to the living room, I slip on my shoes, open the door, and exit my apartment to head for the elevator. My feet moveon their own accord, body numbly going through the motions. Every step feels rehearsed, like I’m just acting out a part in a play I didn’t audition for.
I step into the elevator when it arrives, punching the button for my destination. The metal box hums as it ascends, my stomach twisting while I watch the numbers on the panel above the doors climb.
Twenty-eight.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-nine.
The doors glide open with a soft chime on the fortieth floor and that awful smell hits me instantly, nausea curling in my gut. I squint against the brightness as I step out, the woman sitting behind the reception desk smiling at me like I’ve just arrived for a spa visit.
“Miss Beckett,” she greets brightly, calling me by name even though I swear I’ve never seen this lady in my life. “Right on schedule.”
I offer her a tight-lipped smile, hoping it passes for something normal.
“Take a seat,” she directs, gesturing toward the row of chairs lined up under the massive window. “I’ll let Dr. Aspen know you’ve arrived.”
I nod numbly and cross the lobby to the waiting area, sinking down into one of the stiff fiberglass chairs. Glancing out the window over my shoulder, I try to distract my mind and steel my nerves. My knee bounces, pulse spiking. The city below almost looks fake from this vantage point, like a model someone built for a school project.
“Miss Beckett?” a male voice calls.
I snap my head around to see Dr. Aspen standing beside the reception desk, wearing a white coat that swallows up his scrawny frame. His thin lips spread into a smile when our eyes meet, bile crawling up my throat.
I’ve never been a fan of Dr. Aspen. He’s creepy in the worst kind of way, looking every bit the part of the mad scientist he’s rumored to be.
“Are you ready for your procedure?” he asks, as if I have a choice in the matter.
I jerk a nod, forcing my legs to work and pushing up to my feet.With one last backwards glance at the world outside, I cross the lobby to join him, allowing him to lead me down the sterile hallway. My heart pounds harder with every step, anxiety sinking its claws in deep.
We reach an exam room near the end of the hall and Dr. Aspen ushers me inside, gesturing to the padded table in the center.
“Hop up,” he directs with a look of smug anticipation, like I’m a bug he’s about to dissect.
The paper crinkles beneath my weight as I climb on, positioning myself in the center of the table and easing back to lie down. The doctor’s assistant enters a heartbeat later– some young guy I don’t recognize– and Dr. Aspen casually directs him to fasten the restraints affixed to the table around my wrists and ankles. His assistant mutely complies, moving around the table to strap me down while I struggle not to flinch at every touch.
“Mouthpiece,” Dr. Aspen mutters, and his assistant slips a spreader between my lips that pulls them back from my teeth– like something a dentist would use, but worse, since my limbs are also restrained. I can’t talk. Can’t move. All I can do is press my eyes closed, drawing deep breaths while trying to steady my nerves.
I startle at the brush of fingertips against my cheek, eyes flying open to find Dr. Aspen’s face hovering right above mine. He smiles as he strokes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear and pressing a small sticker to my temple. My stomach curls in on itself as he connects a wire, then repeats the same motion on the other side before his icy blue gaze drops to my chest, pupils blowing out.
This guy is such a goddamn creep.
Slowly and meticulously, he places two more stickers just under my collarbones and connects electrodes to them, his fingers lingering a little too long.
