Page 57 of Reclaimed

Which is absolutely ridiculous. I haven’t been safe since I became property of the state.

I try to remember how I got here, sifting through the hazy fragments of memory in my mind. I remember colors– there were so many colors– blue blurs, pulses of light, and pink… a pink collar?

The pieces slowly start to come together and my hand lifts, brushing over the raw skin at my neck. Thank fuck, the collar is gone. My fingertips coast across a small bandage at the junction of my neck and shoulder, right where that fucking device was implanted as a parting gift from The Registry.

Does this mean it’s gone?

My pulse spikes as I kick off the duvet and push up to sit, pain twinging in my lower belly at the movement. I look down to find an oversized black shirt hanging loosely over my small frame, and I quickly tug up the hem, revealing a large square of gauze dotted with blood affixed to my stomach.

Did I get shot again?

No…

I blink down at the bandage, trying to make sense of how it got there, and that’s when it all comes flooding back.

Harris. The poker game. The dark room.

Being dragged to the platform and injected with something, a blade slicing into my skin.

The lights going off, running blindly through the dark, flesh snapping and squelching as I stabbed yet another person in my effort to escape…

I grit my teeth as I swing my legs over the edge of the large mattress, brows furrowing as my eyes scan the room again and again.

Where the hell am I?

Where’s Kenzie?

She wasn’t with me when I ran, I’m sure of that. But someone followed. I was being chased.

Or was that a dream?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration pulsing through me.

What the fuck did he drug me with?

I push up to stand, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as I move towards the door, the hem of the oversized shirt I’m wearing swishing around my knees like a dress.

Whose shirt is this?

Not that I’m mad to be covered, but Jesus, this thing was made for a giant.

…Riggs?

My pulse quickens as I reach the door and test the handle. It’s unlocked, swinging wide on the first try and opening into the main area of a cabin.

I blink in surprise as I take a tentative step forward, wondering if the place is abandoned. The ceiling is vaulted, lined with roughly hewn wood beams, and there’s a fire burning in the stone hearth, a flat screen tv mounted above it.

Yeah, this place is definitely not abandoned. Everything is rustic– not in a dirty way, but curated with intention. The furnishings are sleek and minimalistic, a mix of new and vintage that gives a cozy, lived-in vibe.

I pad across the room, searching for clues as to how I got here, where here is, and what kind of trap this is. There aren’t any personal effects to give any clue as to who owns this place. No pictures of family, no knick knacks on the mantle. I go over to the kitchen and pluck a glass from the shelf, twisting on the faucet to fill it. The sight of a ceramic coffee mug sitting in the basin gives me pause.

Someone else has definitely been here.

I try to ignore the creeping feeling of unease, tipping the glass back and drinking the water down in one go. It does fuck all to soothe my dry throat, so I quickly refill it, taking it with me as I wander toward the fireplace.

I stop there for a beat and sip some more water, then my eyes drift across the room, settling on the front door.

There’s no way it’s unlocked… right?