Page 19 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"Everyone breaks eventually," The Professor says as my body convulses against the restraints. "The only variable is how much permanent damage occurs before that happens."
Another jolt, longer this time. My vision whites out from the pain. I can feel my heart stuttering in my chest, the rhythm disrupted by the current. When my vision clears, the Professor's face has changed—morphed into Richard Hartley's sneering visage.
"She's mine," he says, but it's still The Professor's cultured voice coming from Hartley's mouth. "You can't protect her. You can't even protect yourself."
The scene shifts, and suddenly Rose is there, strapped to a table beside me. Her eyes are wide with terror as Hartley approaches her with a scalpel. The blade gleams under the harsh lights, polished and deadly.
"No!" I try to scream, but no sound emerges. I strain against my restraints, feeling them cut into my flesh, warm blood trickling down my wrists.
"This is what happens to things you care about," The Professor says, pressing the blade against Rose's pale skin. A line of crimson appears, her blood spilling over white flesh. The contrast is beautiful and horrifying. "Everything you touch, you destroy."
But then it's my hand holding the scalpel, my fingers covered in her blood. The blade feels right in my grip, an extension of myself. Rose looks at me with the pain of betrayal in her eyes as I cut into her, her flesh parting easily under the sharp edge.
"You said you'd protect me," she whispers as her blood pools beneath her.
I wake with a violent jerk, a strangled cry tearing from my throat. Sweat soaks through my sheets despite the cool air. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to erase the image of Rose's blood on my fingers. The cuts on my knuckles sting, the pain from my ribs a dull throb with each breath. My body is a symphony of pain, but it does nothing to drown out the voice in my head repeating the truth I've always known—the kindest thing I can do for her is keep her far away from me.
Chapter 7
Rose
"No, niña, you must fold gently. Like this." Abuela's weathered hands demonstrate the proper technique, her fingers deftly crimping the edges of the empanada dough with practiced precision. "The pastry feels your mood. Troubled hands make tough dough."
I watch carefully, trying to mimic her movements, yet mine look pathetically lopsided compared to her perfect half-moon shapes. "I'm terrible at this."
"Terrible?" Abuela clicks her tongue. “Yesterday, you never made an empanada in your life. Now you make twenty, and only five ugly ones." She pats my flour-covered hand, leaving a dusty white print on my skin. "This is progress."
As I work, my mind drifts to the feel of Cipher's lips on mine, his deep, rumbling voice. Then the crushing pain of his rejection, the disgust on his face as he pulled away. The memory leaves me feeling hurt, confused, and humiliated.
The kitchen door swings open, and Rash strolls in, his lean frame filling the doorway. His face brightens when he sees me. "What're you cooking up today, little sis?"
The nickname warms me every time he uses it. In just two weeks, Rash has become the brother I never had. His easy affection and protective nature are like a balm to my battered soul.
"Empanadas," I reply, holding up my latest creation for inspection. "Though Abuela's doing most of the actual cooking."
"Lies!" Abuela calls from the stove. "She makes them almost as good as me now."
Rash grabs a chair, spinning it around to sit with his arms folded over the backrest. "Save me some? Somehow I got stuck with midnight patrol duty in the most remote sector, and the protein bars I usually carry taste like cardboard soaked in artificial strawberry."
I smile, already setting aside a few for him. "Of course. I'll wrap them so you can take them with you."
"You're the best," he says, reaching over to ruffle my hair like I'm a kid, though he can't be more than four or five years older than me. Leaning closer, he adds in a lower voice, "How are you doing? Really?"
The simple question, asked with genuine concern, nearly undoes me.
"I'm okay," I say, focusing on crimping the edges of another empanada.
"Just okay?" His eyes, warm and observant, study my face. "You've been quiet since the wedding.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "I'm always quiet."
"Different kind of quiet." He reaches out, tapping the space between my eyebrows. "You get this little wrinkle right here when you're upset about something. Or someone…?”
Heat crawls up my neck. Am I that transparent? "It's nothing. Just... adjusting."
"You know I'm here, right? If you need to talk, or if you need someone's ass kicked." He winks, trying to lighten the mood."I may not be the scariest looking dude in the club, but I'm scrappy." He exaggeratedly flexes his bicep.
