Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
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Winter
Leather straps bit into my wrists, my ankles and my neck.
I knew where I was, this all too familiar place that filled me with nothing but terror. Beneath me, the stainless-steel table was cold, sterile. The room was dimly lit, or maybe I just couldn't open my eyes wide enough, like I'd just woken up from hours of sleep. But I was sure I'd not been asleep at all. My body was weak. My hands trembled but my limbs felt heavy, as if despite being strapped into place, I was sinking deeper into the floor.
Though I was barely able to move, I glanced down as far as I could. Confirming what was going on. In nothing but that diamond-covered gown, I knew there was no escape. There never was. Maybe I was too out of it to realise until now, but there were three other people in the room. Two men dressed in white, masks covering their faces, white long coats hung from their bodies. Doctors. Alongside them—Roman. He was here to watch, observe as he always did. Maybe he found pleasure in watching what happened to me. His techniques worked.
He was adjusting something on the metal tray beside the bed. His tools. They were more like weapons, although he'd always assure me it wouldn't hurt. It always did. Always. I shifted in the restraints, knowing I'd never get out of them, but I always found myself trying and hoping I'd get out. There was something pressed to either side of my temples. Wires, it seemed. Even if I got out of the restraints, there'd be nothing more I could do. I couldn't walk, I couldn't move for myself, and they ensured that.
I glanced at one of the doctors. They were just standing there, waiting for their instructions. My voice barely worked, it was hoarse. My throat was so dry. "Please..."
They all ignored me.
"Please, I'm sorry." I hummed, jerking one of my arms. I couldn't go through this again. I didn't have the strength. "I can be better. I'll be good."
I tugged on the restraints again, with all of the strengths I could muster up, which was barely anything. I probably couldn't even raise one of my own arms if I wanted to. I wouldn't be able to stand.
I swallowed the bile in my throat, feeling a singular tear run down the side of my face, landing on the metal table where I lay. "Please don't do it to me again."
Roman turned to me, his expression one of fake pity, he wasn't capable of guilt or empathy. Jutting out his bottom lip, he reached for me. "Oh, sweet little bird." His cold hand landed on my face, my skin, he dragged the pad of his thumb along my cheek. Wiping away my tear. "You know I hate to see you like this."
I took a breath, trying to force myself to focus. But everything was wrong. I felt hollow, as if I hadn't eaten or drank water in days or weeks. Maybe I hadn't. I didn't remember getting here, or what I'd done to deserve this. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please let me go."
"I can't do that." He picked up a syringe from the tray, tapping it lightly. A clear liquid swirls inside. "And you have to stay still, you know that. Or you'll only make this worse for yourself."
