Page 7 of Rescuing Rebel

Dimples when he grins.

He’s got a body that would put Superman to shame. Yeah, his type is my kryptonite, and I can’t stop staring. My lady bits tingle, indulging in fantasies I’m not ready to process.

Focus!

He’s no Clark Kent, and I’m no Lois Lane.

But damn, if I don’t want to be.

Learning Guardian secrets from him could prove useful and fun.

Buthe’snot on my side. In fact, we’re on completely opposite sides.

Not quite an enemy, he and his Guardian friends are self-righteous Samaritans who swooped in oblivious to the battle I waged in the shadows. I have to tread carefully. Perhaps, if I can learn their secrets, it might be something I can sell. Or barter? Or use?

I need to get close to him.

Indulging my interest, while unwise, might be necessary. Attachments are dangerous in my world. Yet I can’t miss an opportunity to press Ethan Blackwood for details about these Guardians and their operations. It could be fun wrestling that information out of him from the comfort of his bed.

Honestly, it’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed sex. Too long since I’ve focused on my pleasure.

With my thoughts on him, I miss the moment the wheels touch down. Featherlight, it’s the smoothest landing I’ve ever experienced. The plane slows, and I steel myself for whatever comes next. I survived hell once already. I can do it again. I’ll find some way to turn this setback to my advantage.

These Guardians have no clue about the monsters I’ve faced or the depths I’ve sunk to in pursuing my goal.

Let’s call it what it is. I’m obsessed.

Darkness provides strength if you let it.

And I refuse to fail.

Hours later, after a transfer off the plane to a bus, we arrive at a place they call The Facility.

We’re herded like cattle, led from one place to the next without a care for what we want. Theysayit’s voluntary, but let’s be real.

They want me to play the victim—the traumatized, trembling girl who needs their guiding hand to rest, recuperate, and re-integrate into society.

Ugh, I’m about ready to pull my hair out. Little do they realize I was never a captive.

At least not in the way they assumed. Not until I fucked up.

I paste on a fragile smile as the perky counselor leads me through The Facility, giving me the hard sell about their comprehensive services.

“We’ll get you back on your feet in no time. Group therapy, art, yoga—oh, and the grounds! We have gardens and walking trails and the most delightful little pond. Not to mention the cliffs and the beach below. It’s not a sandy beach. It’s got pebbles and stones instead of sand, but when the tide’s out, the tide pools are a wonder to explore. You have free range of the grounds and don’t worry. Our security is tighter than Fort Knox. You’ll be safe.”

With its cozy living spaces and panoramic windows with million-dollar views, The Facility is deceptively pleasant for a glorified prison.

I tune out her bubbly pitch about all the activities that will “restore my sense of self.” As if a few trust falls and macaroni necklaces can erase what I endured in that squalid compound. What I gave up to get there in the first place—my identity, my dignity, the last shreds of innocence—that’s not something they can fix withwoo-woomumbo-jumbo-magic.

This place isn’t about healing. It’s about control. They want to mold us into whatever sympathetic narrative best suits their image, but I refuse to be a character in their PR story.

I’m no one’s victim.

As we walk past a common area, women glance up from board games and conversations, their sympathetic eyes following me. My counselor notices. “Oh good! These are some of your fellow survivors. Why don’t we stop and chat? We can buddy you up, and they can show you the ropes.”

Buddy up?

Um, hell no.

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