Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“Neural patterns are stabilizing.”
“We’re losing cohesion in the—”
Pain. Not like the headaches. Worse. Like being unmade at a molecular level, every atom of my being scattered and reassembled wrong. I try to scream, but there’s no air, no throat, no me, just data streaming through circuits, a mind without a body, falling forever through electric dark.
And then—
Syria. I’m in Syria. I smell smoke and cordite. There’s sand in my eyes, grit in my teeth. Emma’s voice on the satellite phone, distorted by distance and static. “They know about the protest. Nate. They know. You have to—”
The line goes dead.
Then, I’m running through rubble, weapon raised, someone screaming in Arabic. A child’s body in the street, too small, too still. My hands covered in blood that isn’t mine. The crack of a rifle and my shoulder exploding, spinning me around, and I’m falling—
The operating room again, different this time. Older equipment, flickering lights. A man leans over me, grey mustache, white coat, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t what I wanted.”
“Who are you?” My voice doesn’t sound right.
“I’m the one who made you.” His face blurs, shifts, becomes Julia’s face, then Marsh’s, then something without features at all—just a blank oval where a person should be.
The machines scream. The lights explode. And somewhere in the darkness, I hear my own voice saying words I don’t remember speaking:
“Integration complete. Awaiting directives.”
I open my mouth to scream—
I wake up screaming.
The bedroom is dark, the only light the faint glow of the city through the windows. I’m drenched in sweat, my heart hammering so hard, it feels like it might crack my ribs, and Mia is already there, her hands on my face, her voice cutting through the panic.
“Nate. Nate, you’re okay. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”
I grab her. Pull her against me hard enough that she gasps, burying my face in her hair, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and her skin and her.
Real.
Solid.
Alive.
“It was a nightmare,” I manage. “Just a nightmare.”
“You were screaming.” Her voice is careful, steady. “What happened?”
The dreams fade, blowing away like dust.
“I don’t remember.”
I don’t know if I want to remember.
Her body is warm against mine. Soft. The T-shirt has ridden up, her bare thighs pressed against my legs, and despite everything—the nightmare, the terror, the questions circling like sharks—I feel myself responding. Warmth flooding my body. Blood rushing south.
I pull back enough to look at her face. She’s watching me with concern and calculation, and I want to drown in her. I want to lose myself so completely that the dream can’t follow. I need to feel real. I need to feel alive.
“Mia.” Her name comes out rough, desperate.
“I’m here.”
I kiss her. It’s sweet for one second before it twists and turns and becomes something hungry. Ravenous. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and I swallow it, rolling her beneath me, my weight pinning her to the mattress.
Mine. She’s mine.
“Oh, I—”
I kiss her again, cutting off whatever she was going to say. My hands are everywhere—pulling up the shirt, palming her breasts, sliding between her thighs. She’s wet already, and the knowledge makes something feral unfurl in my chest.
“I need you,” I growl against her throat. “Need to feel you so fucking badly.”
“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay, yes—”
I interrupt her by thrusting inside her, no warm-up, no teasing—just burying myself to the hilt in one hard stroke. She cries out, her back arching, her nails digging hard into my shoulders.
“Jesus! God, Nate—”
It’s an exquisite string of words, but I don’t let her finish. I’m already moving, fucking her hard and fast, that dark energy from the dream pouring through me like an inky current. I grab her wrists, pin them above her head, and feel her pulse hammering against my palms. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and some distant part of me registers that this is too much, too rough, but I can’t stop.
Don’t want to stop.
“Who do you belong to?” The words come out guttural, barely human. “Say it. Tell me who you belong to!”
“You—oh God—I’m yours—”
“Louder.”
But her words are choked as my hand closes around her throat, not squeezing—not yet—just resting there, feeling her swallow, feeling the vibration of her moans. The power of it is intoxicating. I could crush her windpipe without effort, could watch the light fade from her eyes while I’m still inside her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her pulse races against my palm. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I see something shift in them, concern now bleeding into fear.
She’s afraid.
She fears me.
My hand tightens. Just a little.
“Nate—” Her voice is strained now against my palm. “Nate, wait—”
I don’t wait. I thrust harder, my grip on her throat increasing, that darkness howling through me like a storm. She’s struggling now, trying to push at my chest, but I’m too strong. I’m always too strong, and some part of me is screaming to stop, but I can’t find the brakes—