Page 13 of Glutton for Punishment

I guess the universe wouldn’t exactly hand me an archway with a neon sign flashing “Escape through here”.

Blaise moves toward the recessed metal panel and presses a button built into the wall. The door groans as it slides open, and I recognize it from the Greed dorms back at the academy. An elevator.

Blaise steps in behind me, his smell suffocating. The more it infiltrates my nose, the more it makes my skin crawl.

Blinding light assaults me when the lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

I stumble forward, blinking against the glare as my eyes struggle to adjust.

Everything is white.

Floors, walls, ceilings—so clean they feel hostile. At least twenty people in white coats move through the space with brisk efficiency, eyes flicking between massive glowing screens and armfuls of paperwork. Separate viewing areas ring the room, enclosed in glass.

“Welcome home,” Blaise murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath brushes my ear.

I shutter at the unfamiliarity of it all.

He straightens and gestures to a man in a white coat standing nearby.

“Arwen,” Blaise says smoothly, “this is Doctor Plinth. You will follow his every order. No resistance. No pushback.”

I study the doctor. He’s hefty and sharp-featured, with a mouth twisted into a sneer. His eyes rake over me, unimpressed.

“The nurses will clean you first,” he says, already turning away.

What follows feels less of a preparation and more like punishment.

Hours pass until I’m presentable enough for testing. Time blurs under scalding water and rough hands. They scrub me until my skin burns. No one meets my eyes. No one apologizes. They all stay silent through my comments and questions.

Eventually I’m led to one of the testing stations, my body already aching and abused from the cleaning.

This doesn’t bode well for me.

“Stand here,” says one of the white coats. I’m positioned beneath harsh lights, metal cold beneath my bare feet.

Beyond the glass walls of the observation room, I can make out several figures waiting. Blaise moves toward me, keys dangling from his fingers.

“Now,” he says, “we’re going to take these cuffs off so you can show your abilities for my team.”

My gaze snaps to his face.

“And you’re going to be a good girl,” he continues, voice turning silk-smooth, “and use your powers only as instructed.”

His eyes sharpen. “You know what’s at stake. If I sense even the slightest intention to harm me or anyone here… I will make sure Willshire feels it tenfold.”

My hands curl into fists.

“How do I know you haven’t already hurt him?” I demand. “I won’t be your experiment unless I see—with my own eyes—that he’s okay.”

“Spoiled brat,” Blaise mutters under his breath, irritation slipping through his polished exterior.

“Of course,” he says. “I expected this.”

He pulls a small remote from his pocket and clicks it toward the monitor mounted along the wall. The screen flickers to life, and Atticus’s cell fills the display.

He’s pacing, running a hand through his hair before dragging his fingers down his face. He looks wild and furious. But unharmed.

Blaise watches my reaction closely.