Unseen

Chapter 19

After an hour or two of being hooked up to the car battery, Yvette's world narrowed down to a scattered collection of tiny details. They lay strewn across her consciousness like broken glass. Sharp enough to cut. Impossible to put together into a coherent whole.

There was the smell of her own burning flesh, like overcooked meat. There were the tiny dots of pain where the wires had made contact with her skin. There were the soft voices of her captors—Tehrani's voice calm and businesslike, Donnellan's thick with smooth regret.

There were the cold, harsh lights above. Flickering overhead fluorescents, too bright, like they belonged in a warehouse and not her house. The walls were bare unpainted, bulging with visible soundproofing. Speckles of dried blood painted those ugly walls and the bare concrete floor. Old blood. Not hers.

The basement room had been hidden behind a shelf full of canned goods. Yvette had lived in this house all her life, and she had never known it held a room like this. She had watched her father chastise his subordinates in his office and shivered. She had thought that was the worst he could do.

Apparently it had been no surprise to these men. They had known her father far better than her, it seemed. An outsider, they had called her. Maybe they were right.

Donnellan circled around to the front of the chair where she was cuffed hand and foot. "Don't make us keep going," he said. She could almost believe his regret was sincere. Almost. "Just give us the accounts."

Just give them what they want, she could hear Reynold saying in her head. This isn't worth it.

But they had already taken everything else. If they stripped her of her pride as well, if they stripped her of her ability to choose, what would she be then? Who would she be?

Nothing, that was what. She would be nothing.

She opened her mouth, like she was getting ready to give him an answer. He leaned forward expectantly.

She spit in his face with precise aim. The glob of spittle landed directly under his eye. He recoiled.

A flash of genuine anger showed through his insincere sorrow. "If that's how you want it," he said, shaking his head.

He stepped back. Petric stepped forward.

Petric didn't bother hiding the gleam in his eye. At least he was honest about enjoying this.

A fresh shock burned through her. Her hoarse scream echoed flatly off the soundproofed walls.

At first, she had told herself she wouldn't scream. That resolution hadn't even lasted five minutes. She couldn't keep that promise to herself. That was one scrap of dignity she couldn't hold onto.

So instead she had focused on promising herself she would never give them what they wanted. She might scream. She might writhe in pain. She might beg, although they hadn't brought her that low yet. But she would not give them the Couvillion Syndicate. If she couldn't have it, neither could they.

If her father's legacy would die, it would die at their hands.

She floated out of her body to hover somewhere near the ceiling. She looked down at the pathetic figure in the chair. Shoulders sagging, head thrown back in a desperate yowl. Her hair was plastered to her sweaty skin. She smelled like fear. She smelled like death.

Her father would have been furious. He had always insisted that she look presentable at all times.

The burning stopped. She fell heavily back into her body. Her head sagged to her chest. A new smell filled the room, sharp and bitter. Her legs were sticky with warm liquid.