Page 18 of Hysteria Rises
Summit flashes a toothy grin. “Yeah!” And, almost as if he’s forgotten the oddity of me walking around with a woman in my arms, he toddles on quick legs back to the children’s room.
Twenty-three—because I guess we’re going to end up calling her by her number eventually—strains in my arms, arching her back and twisting around. With a disgruntled huff, she cranes her neck to watch my youngest brother’s departure. Once he’s disappeared and the door snaps shut behind him, her voice croaks out “Was that… a child?” The question is confusion laden, the answer a minefield.
I shift her in my arms, but she squirmsagain, groaning. Crazy that she’s not unconscious, because even semi-aware is not the state we wanted her to be in. She jolts, and I have to scramble to keep hold of her.
“Arrow! You coming?” Hayze calls to me from the hallway that leads to the individual cells.
“Yeah. One sec. Tell Cross she isn’t out. Like at all.” Wasting no more time, I hoist her over my shoulder, letting her dangle. I band one arm around her thighs, and then, because no one is watching—and mostly because I want to—I squeeze a handful of her ripe ass cheek to hold her steady. I groan as I turn my face toward her rounded hip.
My breath stutters. Fuck.
Hayze, Malakai, and Cross wait impatiently for me at the end of the long, dark hall. When I reach them, I make a hard right directly into the cell, and deposit her on the blanket that’s spread out on the floor. She stretches, mumbling something incoherent.
I glance over my shoulder. “Cross, I think she needs more of that sedative. She’s still talking and shit.”
He shrugs. “It happens. Some people react differently to this stuff. My father says it has to do with genetics.”
“Gen-what?” I frown.
Cross gives me a half smile. “Every person is a little different when it comes to how they’re made. Just like you have blue eyes, but”—he jerks his thumb toward Malakai—“his are shit brown.”
“Fuck off.”
Cross continues as if Malakai hasn’t saida word. “Occasionally, there are people who have a higher tolerance to sedatives and you have to give them a little more. But that’s why I came prepared, remember?” Cross holds up another syringe, twiddling it between his finger and thumb. “It’s just a partial dosage. Should be plenty to completely knock out this little dilemma for hours.”
I hope we aren’t needed for anything else beyond our usual chores today, because I only have one thing on my mind: finding a way to see my siren again—unconscious or not.
TEN
DELILAH
I’m awake,I think. But my head thumps so viciously I kinda wish I were dead, and there’s a vile taste in my mouth that just won’t quit no matter how I try to swallow it down. Squeezing my eyes tighter, I groan as I ponder the swift dive my life has taken off a cliff since I left the roadside. I’ve gotta find a way to escape this place and the creepy-as-fuck people who live here.
My entire body hurts. Maybe from the strain of fighting off one asshole after another, but also whatever I’m lying on is hard as a rock. It makes me wish—though foolishly—for the cot in the little room I’d awakened in last night. But the older men—they made it clear I’d lost that privilege when I tried to defend myself this morning. Yesterday morning? How am I even supposed to know how much time has passed?
What was I supposed to do? That mean fucker—Kiefer, I think his name is—had walked rightinto the room, and without so much as a hello, put his hand on my thigh. Slid it upward. Touched me.
My lips twitch into a faint smile. I bet he’s regretting that move right about now. He deserves every scar he’ll carry. And maybe when he looks at himself in the fucking mirror, he’ll think twice before putting his hand on someone without their consent.
My eyes remain gritty, even after I pry them open and begin to blink in hopes of clearing my vision. What the hell did they give me to knock me out like that? More of the same shit they gave me the night before, or so I was told. But what was it? Something Hazel Eyes injected directly into my arm. I heard them say it would only last a few hours. And they might have to come give me more. Fuck. No wonder I feel like shit.
I groan aloud, and the sound of my own discomfort makes me feel worse. With a glance around, I’m positive I’m underground. There are no windows, and the walls are constructed of cement blocks on three sides, but the final one is lined with bars. Like I’m in fucking jail. It’s definitely a holding cell of some sort, only unlike the tiny room I’d been locked in upstairs, this is way more like a fucking cage. It’s never been clearer than it is right now—I’m a prisoner. And what I’ve been lying on is actual stone. Sure, there’s a blanket beneath me, but just below it, the chill of the floor seeps through the thin cotton shift they’ve dressed me in. I shiver, convinced I’ll never be warm again.
My brows furrow as I pick up on the whir of a machine chugging away somewhere. It stops. Pauses? Then picks right back up. I roll to my side, my head thumping as I cast my eyes in the direction of the noise. I suck in a breath. “Someone! Help me! I’m locked in!” I pause, waiting for any sign that I’ve been loud enough to be heard, but there’s nothing. I try again. “Let me out of here! I want to leave! Right the fuck now!”
I almost weep with relief when I hear someone approaching. A moment later, though, my eyes practically bug out of my head. It’s achild. They might be three or four, I’m unsure. Biting my lip, I sit up, beckoning them closer.
Now that I’ve had a better look, I can tell it’s a little boy, though his hair is on the long side. He’s blond with a sweet face. When he gets to about a foot outside the cell, he stops and stares at me wide-eyed and curious.
Wait.Sifting through the faint memories I have of being hauled down here against my will and drugged half out of my mind, I think I remember seeing him. I pause, my forehead creasing as I attempt to force recall. Yes. I know I saw him. This little one had spoken with one of the men who’d been charged with bringing me down here.
What was the little guy’s name? My forehead wrinkles in concentration, causing it to ache. Something with an S, but whatever drug I was given seems to have made my memory foggy. I do know he called out to theone they call Arrow. My middle-of-the-night creepy stalker. “Hey,” I whisper, “come talk to me.”
He cocks his head to the side, studying me with inquisitive, pale-blue eyes.
“You have a mama… right?” I wince when he doesn’t answer, because I’ve not seen a single woman. Taking a chance, I rephrase my question, hoping for a better result. “Where’s your mama?” My brows lift as he shuffles on his feet, and I hold my breath. Then finally, he bobs his head ever so slightly. When he doesn’t move after that, I wonder if I’ve imagined things. Frustrated, I rub my hands over my face. I’m getting nowhere with him, not really, so I wet my lips, preparing to ask the questions that begin to flood my mind.Are there more children? And if his mother isn’t here, who takes care of him? Can he go get them?
But before I can utter a syllable, he shakes his head, then whispers softly as he brings a chubby forefinger to his lips, “Mama thinks you should be quiet.”
