Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter
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doctor had thinning salt-and-pepper hair, dark brown eyes and perfectly tanned, though slightly lined, skin. He was on the thin side, and at five-ten, only an inch taller than she was.
Overall, he was moderately attractive. If you ignored the blackness of his soul, of course.
The longer she stared at him, rebelliously silent, the more his lips curled with amusement. Oh, how that grated—not that she’d ever let him know it. She would never willingly do anything to please him, but she would also never cower in his presence. Yes, he was the worst kind of monster, power hungry, selfish and unacquainted with the truth, and yes, he could hurt her. And would.
He already had.
Last night he’d drugged her. Well, he’d drugged her every day of his two-month employment at the Moffat County Institution for the Criminally Insane. But last night he had sedated her with the express purpose of stripping her, touching her in ways he shouldn’t and taking pictures.
Such a pretty girl, he’d said. Out there in the real world, a stunner like you would make me work for something as simple as a dinner date. Here, you’re completely at my mercy. You’re mine to do with as I please… and I please plenty.
Humiliation still burned hot and deep, a fire in her blood, but she would not betray a moment of weakness. She knew better.
Over the last four years, the doctors and nurses in charge of her care had changed more times than her roommates, some of them shining stars of their profession, others simply going through the motions, doing what needed doing, while a select few were worse than the convicted criminals they were supposed to treat. The more she caved, the more those employees abused her. So, she always remained on the defensive.
One thing she’d learned during her incarceration was that she could rely only on herself. Her complaints of abominable treatment went unheeded, because most higher-ups believed she deserved what she got—if they believed her at all.
“Annabelle,” Fitzpervert chided. “Silence isn’t to be tolerated.”
Well, then. “I feel like I’m one hundred percent cured. You should probably let me go.”
At least the amusement drained. He frowned with exasperation. “You know better than to answer my questions so flippantly. That doesn’t help you deal with your emotions or problems. That doesn’t help anyone here deal with their emotions or problems.”
“Ah, so I’m a lot like you then.” As if he cared about helping anyone but himself.
Several patients snickered. A couple merely drooled, foamy bubbles falling from babbling lips and catching on the shoulders of their gowns.
Fitzpervert’s frown morphed into a scowl, the pretense of being here to help vanishing. “That smart mouth will get you into trouble.”
Not a threat. A vow. Doesn’t matter, she told herself. She lived in constant fear of creaking doors, shadows and footsteps. Of drugs and people and… things. Of herself. What was one more concern? Although… at this rate, her emotions would be the thing to finally bury her.
“I’d love to tell you how I feel, Dr. Fitzherbert,” the man beside her said.
Fitzpervert ran his tongue over his teeth before switching his attention to the serial arsonist who’d torched an entire apartment building, along with the men, women and children living inside of it.
As the group discussed feelings and urges and ways to control them both, Annabelle distracted herself with a study of her surroundings. The room was as dreary as her circumstances. There were ugly yellow water stains on the paneled ceiling, the walls were a peeling gray and the floor carpeted with frayed brown shag. The uncomfortable metal chairs the occupants sat upon were the only furniture. Of course, Fitzpervert luxuriated on a special cushion.
Meanwhile, Annabelle had her hands cuffed behind her back. Considering the amount of sedatives pumping through her system, being cuffed was overkill. But hey, four weeks ago she’d brutally fought a group of her fellow patients, and two weeks ago one of her nurses, so of course she was too menacing to leave unrestrained, no matter that she’d sought only to defend herself.
For the past thirteen days, she’d been kept in the hole, a dark, padded room where deprivation of the senses slowly drove her (genuinely) insane. She had been starved for contact, and had thought any interaction would do—until Fitzpervert drugged and photographed her.
This morning, he arranged her release from solitary confinement, followed by this outing. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he hoped to bribe her into accepting his mistreatment.
If Mom and Dad could see me now…. She bit back a sudden, choking sob. The young, sweet girl they’d loved was dead, the ghost somehow alive inside her, haunting her. At the worst times, she would remember things she had no business remembering.
Taste this, honey. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten!
A terrible cook, her mother. Saki had enjoyed tweaking recipes to “improve” them.
Did you see that? Another touchdown for the Sooners!
A die-hard football fan, her dad. He had attended O.U. in Oklahoma for three semesters, and had never cut those ties.
She could not allow herself to think about them, about her mother and father and how wonderful they’d been… and… oh, she couldn’t stop it from happening…. Her mother’s image formed, taking center stage in her mind. She saw a fall of hair so black the strands appeared blue, much like Annabelle’s own. Eyes uptilted and golden, much like Annabelle’s used to be. Skin a rich, creamy mix of honey and cinnamon and without a single flaw. Saki Miller—once Saki Tanaka—had been born in Japan but raised in Georgetown, Colorado.
Saki’s traditional parents had freaked when she and the white-as-can-be Rick Miller had fallen hopelessly in love and married. He’d come home from college on holiday, met her and moved back to be with her.
Both Annabelle and her brother were a combination of their parents’ heritages. They shared their mother’s hair and skin, the shape of her face, yet had their father’s height and slender build.
Although Annabelle’s eyes no longer belonged to either Saki or Rick.
After that horrible morning in her garage, after her arrest for their murders, after her conviction, her lifelong sentencing to this institution for the criminally insane, she’d finally found the courage to look at herself in a mirror. What she’d seen had startled her. Eyes the color of winter ice, deep in the heart of an Arctic snowstorm, eerie and crystalline, barely blue with no hint of humanity. Worse, she could see things with these eyes, things no one should ever have to see.
And oh, no, no, no. As the trust circle yammered on, two creatures walked through the far wall, pausing to orient themselves. Heart rate spiraling, Annabelle looked at her fellow patients, expecting to see expressions of terror. No one else seemed to notice the visitors.
How could they not? One creature had the body of a horse and the torso of a man. Rather than skin, he was covered by glimmering silver… metal? His hooves were rust-colored and possibly some kind of metal as well, sharpened into deadly points.
His companion was shorter, with stooped shoulders weighed down by sharp, protruding horns, and legs twisted in the wrong direction. He wore a loincloth and nothing else, his chest furred, muscled and scarred.
The scent of rotten eggs filled the room, as familiar as it was horrifying. The first flood of panic and anger burned through her, a toxic mix she could not allow to control her. It would wreck her concentration and slow her reflexes—her only weapons.
She needed weapons.
The creatures came in all shapes and sizes, all colors, both sexes—and maybe something in between—but they had one thing in common: they always came for her.
Every doctor who’d ever treated her had tried to convince her that the beings were merely figments of her