Classified || 2 || ✔️ mature

18 | Lilac

Nathaniel is the worst of her captors.

He always appears when no one is around, not that anyone would stop him anyway. Lilac has been here long enough to know these people don't care what happens to her as long as she can continue being used as their guinea pig.

It was her reality now.

The door shuts behind him with a click. He never bothers to lock it, not with Reece on the other side. What's the point when she can't move anyway. Even if the drugs weren't in her system, the binds keep her locked up perfectly for him.

Lilac follows him with her eyes, his cornflower blue gaze locked on her. His hand floats out, fingers bouncing from one syringe to the other on the tray left behind by Nurse Daphne.

Sometimes Lilac thinks Daphne is on it, syringes always tending to be left out before Nathaniel makes an appearance. He grabs one of the empty ones, curling his meaty fingers around it before he takes a seat on the side of her bed, his other hand lifting to place her frozen hand on his thigh.

He leans over her, and all Lilac can do is watch his cornflower blue eyes as he traces the needle point of the syringe down her cheek, tracing the scar there with leering curiosity.

He asked her once how she got it. She couldn't answer. That day the drugs were different, worse.

She likes to block that day from memory, what Nathaniel and Reece had done to her. If she doesn't think about it, it never happened.

So far that thinking hasn't worked out for her.

He groans quietly as he drags the syringe down her neck gently, his eyes following the movement. He narrows them as he slips the syringe between two fingers, thumb caressing the plunger as he pushes it all the way down, releasing any lingering air from the pump.

He watches in morbid curiosity as he sinks the needlepoint into her skin, joining the cluster of scars already there before he removes it with a guttural groan, inserting it back in.

Lilac let's her eyes shut as his hand lands on her hip, bunching the scratchy clothes in his fist, lifting the top up as he slides his fingers under the waist band.

Cornflower blue eyes stare back at me as I shut the door to the private rooms behind me, flicking the lock with a snap.

My steps are unsteady before I lock my knees and continue in, my eyes tracing over the features in front of me.

The man in front of me doesn't look like how he used to, his skin melted on the left side of his face, the shoulder bared under his navy shirt deformed and scarred, the hand he used to touch me melted to the bone, nothing to show but a stub.

The sight brings a sense of relief to me.

I stalk forward, letting the calm settle over me once more as I hear the music grow louder.

My target Cain McLaren, formerly known as Nathaniel Boulder, relaxes back into his spot on the lounge, legs spread to make room for his non-existent balls.

And I do mean non-existent. Nathaniel lost his balls in the fire that tore through a warehouse downtown, killing doctors and scientists and patients alike.

A very sad story, I'm told.

Too bad, it's being told wrong.

When Nathaniel got out of the hospital after surviving the burns, he changed his name, but the silly little boy didn't run far enough.

Didn't run at all.

As if he thought everyone who knew what went down in that building were dead.