Page 20 of Darkest Kiss

"I'm Rian," I tell her quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm taking you somewhere safe."

She can't nod. There's no voice for her to use. The Gloss has shut her down to nothing but her eyes. But oh, how she looks at me. She locks onto me, holds, and then blinks. Once, slow and deliberate, hard enough that I know how hard it must be to control her blinks.

She’s making some kind of acknowledgement.

I'm taking her either way. I bought her, I'm walking out of here with her, and one blink doesn't move a single step of that plan.

I take her hand to lift her from the box. Against my palm, the very tip of one finger curls as she makes steady eye contact with me. Then she slowly blinks. Once, twice.

"Yeah," I murmur, just for her. "I've got you. I'm not letting go."

She blinks again. That’s all I need. I was going to do this with or without her consent.

I turn to Brent. He straightens up like he's about to give me a sales pitch and I give him a look that shortens the pitch considerably.

"The drug," I say. "How do I wake her up?"

He blinks. "Wake her⁠—"

"I want to wake her up."

He shuffles his papers. "The Gloss will wear off in three to four days. We strongly recommend⁠—"

I grunt, "I'm not waiting three days. What else?"

He winces. "You can give her a dose of adrenaline. But the interaction produces a secondary effect that can be quite… strong."

I stare at him, my blood boiling. This motherfucker must want me to really hurt him. He blinks at me owlishly, then continues.

"Euphoria. Extreme arousal, approximately five hours before she crashes." He holds up a finger. "And it can stop her heart if the dose is too high. The cardiac risk alone⁠—"

I hold out my hand.

He stares at it.

"The adrenaline," I say. "Give it to me. Now."

He fumbles for the kit, still talking—dosage, cardiac risk, liability. Brent’s afraid that I’m going to come back when I’ve killed her. It’s a little funny because I’m going to kill him instead. I turn back to Noemi.

She's been watching the whole exchange. Her eyes track to the kit in my hand and something in her face changes, and not in the direction I was hoping for.

She looks afraid again.

No, not just afraid. Her eyes have gone glassy. The color is draining out of her skin. She can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except breathe. I can see even that is going wrong. Her breathing is too fast, too shallow.

She's been fully conscious inside a paralyzed body for days. She has a panic disorder. She has watched men in suits page through a binder with her photo in it. She has watched me buy her.

She doesn't know what happens next.

I hover in front of her, trying to block out everyone else standing around and make our interaction private. "Noemi. Look at me."

Her eyes find my face. They're not tracking anymore. She's not calculating. Whatever was keeping her together just ran out.

"You're safe," I tell her. "I've got you. You're⁠—"

She sucks in a breath through her nose. Then her eyes roll up and she goes out like a light.

I catch her before she slumps, the box clattering against the wall. I stand there for a second with her limp in my arms and the adrenaline kit still in my hand.