Freed and Filled

Chapter 10 - Jokur

The distance between us shreds my soul with a torturously slow sweep of long, razor-sharp claws. A hole forms in its wake, leaving black puss to ooze into my chest.

My restraints tighten and the device shifts, twisting my arms behind my back at odd angles and tilting me forward so I can't find my balance. The hatch swings open and a single beta female enters the room. She wears a white hazmat suit, the cut different from the alphas who strut around like they own the place.

My fury increases from a low simmer to a rolling boil as the memory of a human male holding my omega to the floor resurfaces. The only reason I didn't decimate my restraints and annihilate the idiot was because of how Harlie contorted and jerked. I never want to see her suffer like that again.

How do I reconcile that with the imploring look she gave me as she claimed to want this?

I growl as the beta woman strides closer. She doesn't stop until she stands behind me. After the pinch of a needle, a rush of ice travels through my bloodstream. My heart pumps faster and time slows. I shrug my shoulders as the female closes the door behind her, needing to break the odd sensation sweeping over me.

I can't. My nerves jangle. Every synapse in my brain fires faster than I can process.

My fingers tingle as I ball my hands into fists. Time fluctuates, and after a few odd beats of my heart, realization settles in.

She injected me with synthetic adrenaline.

Less than three days after open heart surgery—I vaguely recall the sounds of the operation—and numerous rounds of electric shock 'therapy', these humans live up to my expectations: all ISC personnel are cruel, barbaric, and downright evil.

Deranged mirth takes hold of me. My laugh bounces off the walls and rattles the shower head against its moorings.

I fall silent, trapped in an ailing body as my soul seeps black tar.

The door opens in slow motion. Harlie shuffles through the entry and closes it behind her. Without a word, she stands with her back to me and her head bowed. Seconds tick by. A metallic grinding denotes the opening of the slot, and her shoulders bunch as she fiddles with whatever they gave her.

She reaches through the opening again and turns around with a syringe. Blue plastic gloves cover her hands.

I search her face and release a concerned rumble.

Naturally pale, she sports an unhealthy white sheen, which throws her freckles into stark contrast and highlights the red in her hair.

As she approaches me, I curse this wretched place and all their cruelty.

My heart no longer thunders. She doesn't move slowly because my body skyrockets through time.

Exhaustion steals her coordination as she cleans the crook of my arm. Her unfocused pupils meet mine. The tears swimming in her eyes nearly undo me.

"I'm sorry," she says before lowering her gaze and pushing the needle into my vein. After two attempts, she finally gets the plunger to compress. She slides the needle free and stumbles back to the door, pushing the empty syringe through the slot after it opens. When she turns around but doesn't move closer, I deepen my purr.

Gravity magnifies until lifting my eyelids more than halfway becomes too great a task. From one extreme to another, the depressant roaming through my veins slows my heart to a dangerous tempo.

"Subject 733, dispose of the gloves," a female says over the speakers. Harlie takes the plastic off, her fingers slipping on the material several times before she drops them through the slot on the door.