Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Don’t I?” He leans forward slightly, eyes—identical to mine—gleaming with the particular satisfaction of finding a weak point. “I know what desire looks like, Brother. I recognize obsession. After all, we share the same genetic predispositions.”
I resume pacing, refusing to engage further.
Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn.
“Did she tell you how responsive she was with me?” Aries continues, voice dropping lower. “How perfectly she fit against me? The sounds she made when I—”
“One more word,” I interrupt, voice deadly quiet, “and I’ll put you back on the floor.”
He laughs, the sound echoing off concrete walls.
“There he is. The monster they created in that place. Always so close to the surface, isn’t he? No matter how hard you try to keep him on a leash.”
I clench my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The desire to cross the cell and beat him unconscious is nearly overwhelming—and exactly what he wants. To prove him right. To demonstrate that I am exactly what they made me.
“It must be exhausting,” Aries continues, watching me fight for control. “Constantly restraining yourself. Pretending you’re something more than an institutional experiment gone wrong. Tell me, do you think Lilian sees past the performance? Or is she just attracted to the danger you represent?”
The question hits with precision, targeting the exact uncertainty that’s plagued me since the flood. Since the unexpected tenderness that formed between us. Since the moment she called me by his name.
“I said shut up,” I repeat, each word carefully measured. But we both know he’s found his target. And like any predator sensing weakness, he won’t stop now that blood is in the water.
“You know,” Aries continues, apparently incapable of self-preservation, “I’ve been wondering which of us she prefers in bed. The calculated control or the raw passion? The careful precision or the primal—”
The Taser appears in my hand before he can finish, drawn from the back of my waistband where I’d secured it after our earlier confrontation. I point it directly at his chest, finger on the trigger.
“I told you to shut up,” I say, voice eerily calm now. “The next words out of your mouth will determine whether you remain conscious for the next six hours.”
Aries eyes the weapon, head tilted slightly as he calculates his options. The restraints limit his movement, his ability to dodge. We both know a second Taser hit would be excruciating, potentially dangerous given the lingering effects of the first.
“You wouldn’t,” he tests, but there’s a new caution in his tone.
“Wouldn’t I?” I take a step closer. “You seem to have forgotten who locked you up in the first place. Who kept you here for weeks. Who has very little to lose at this point.”
The Taser hums softly as I activate it, the sound filling the small space between us. “One more word about her. One more attempt to get under my skin. I dare you.”
Something in my expression must convince him because he raises his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Fine. Consider the subject dropped.”
“All subjects dropped,” I clarify. “I don’t want to hear your voice at all.”
He mimes zipping his lips, the juvenile gesture somehow more infuriating than his words had been. But he settles back against the wall, maintaining my demand for silence.
I lower the Taser but don’t put it away, a visible reminder of my willingness to enforce the quiet. Returning to my pacing, I try to clear my mind and focus on the practical problem of our captivity rather than the psychological warfare Aries excels at.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, the silence broken only by the soft sound of breathing and the occasional clink of Aries’s chains as he shifts position. Our forced proximity is its own unique torture—being trapped in a space designed for one occupant with the person I hate most in the world. Gradually, a different kind of tension replaces the immediate threat of violence. An awareness begins to creep in around the edges of my fury—that Lilian has been gone a significant time. That her emotional outburst, while understandable, should have run its course by now.
I check the digital display on the cell’s environmental control panel: 7:42 p.m.
Over three hours since she locked us in. Three hours of cooling down, of processing her anger. More than enough time to return, to check on us, to continue her forced reconciliation project.
Unless something’s wrong.
I push the thought away, unwilling to give it space to grow. She’s fine. Probably enjoying watching us stew in our mutual hatred. Probably waiting for one of us to break first, to show some sign of willingness to communicate.
But as the minutes continue to tick by, the nagging concern grows stronger. This doesn’t feel like strategy anymore. Doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like absence.
I check my phone again: 11:37 p.m. Nearly seven hours since Lilian walked away.