"Of course," I say with more sass than I mean to.
I hear one of the brothers chuckle from the darkness.
I'd lay money on Declan.
The woman sniffs. "The doctor does not like attitude from his patients," she says through clenched teeth.
"The doctor sounds like a real charmer," I say under my breath.
Another chuckle from the darkness, and the woman clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "I am Nurse Schmidt. You will follow the rules and mind yourself, or suffer the consequences."
I stop walking and turn to face her. "Listen up, Nurse Schmidt," I say with as much derision in my voice as I can muster. "I won't be here long enough to care about your rules. You've kidnapped me, unlawfully detained me, and kept me against my will. I'm a US citizen, and I'll be contacting the Embassy immediately for aid. So, save your spiel for someone who gives a flying fu—"
I'm absolutely not expecting the hard slap against my right cheek. The force of it jars me, and I hold my hand over my now-throbbing skin, trying to breathe through the pain. Her hand must be made of steel, because my face feels like it's just been hit by a damn crowbar.
I’ve only ever been hit in the face once before, and that was in sixth grade when Susie Larson thought I stole her school lunch. I didn’t. She left it at home. When she realized her mistake, she tearfully apologized. Turns out her grandfather died that week and she was having a hard time. We became best friends after that, weirdly enough. But that didn’t hurt anything like this woman’s face hit does, and I worry my cheek bone might be fractured.
I hear a low, menacing growl from the twins' cell, and the nurse's face flinches in fear before returning to the stoic unemotional mask she wears. "There will be no back talk. And if you think the Embassy can help you, you have a lot to learn."
I like to imagine I'm a badass. At least I did before that day. Since then, I've been a shell of myself, walking through my own life like a shadow. But something about this woman, this place, this whole damn situation reignites the fire that once blazed in my soul. I'm ready to fight, and she's the only one close enough to engage. So. I. Engage.
When my fist lands on her cheekbone with a very satisfying crunch, she's definitely not expecting it.
Unfortunately, neither is my fist, which now feels as if it's been smashed by a mallet.
The woman, however, looks unfazed. Her neck didn't even snap to the side. There's no redness on her pale face. No evidence to show I just solidly clocked her with a right hook.
In fact, she smiles. It's a cold, heartless smile that pulls at her lips but leaves her eyes expressionless. "Are you finished?" she asks.
I don't know how to respond. This is…unnatural. But then, everything about this place is.
“Come,” she snaps.
When she begins walking down the darkened hall, I have a choice to make. Follow her, or return to my cell.
Neither option sounds appealing, but I choose to follow. At least it'll give me a better chance of figuring out where I am and how I can get the hell out of here.
“Be careful,” Dean whispers at my back as I walk away.
We pass other cells on our trek to the end of the passage.
It's hard to see anything through the shadows that linger, but I hear scraping coming from somewhere and it sends chills up my spine. "Are there other prisoners here?" I ask, my voice echoing in the silence.
"There are no prisoners at all," she says, not turning to look at me. "Our patients are well-cared for."
"Right. The cells really have that Club Med vibe."
The nurse doesn't respond, and I find my own bravado fading fast as we approach a tall rusted metal door with multiple locks.
I swallow against a dry throat and press my hand over my stomach as I realize I desperately need to use the bathroom.
She pries the door open and it leads immediately to a towering spider-web covered staircase. I climb the steps warily, trying to get a sense for where they lead, but there’s only smooth walls on either side. At least the rusty bars of the dungeon are gone.
As I wait for her to unlock the door at the top, I begin to wonder if I'm in some kind of purgatory. That I succeeded in taking my own life, and now I'm destined to spend the afterlife walking up cold staircases with a mean nurse whose only job is to lock and unlock doors.
Because surely I’m not actually a witch. And those sexy twins aren't actually werewolves. And I'm not actually being held in a dungeon posing as an asylum. That's all actually insane.
Right?
Despite the fact that I could use some real answers in the form of whatever help I can get, the voices in my head are silent now.
Nurse Slap-happy leads the way and I follow. I expect this door to lead us to another staircase to another door, but instead, I find myself walking down a perfectly normal looking hallway with hardwood floors and walls painted a calming teal and hung with innocuous paintings of nature. None of the art pieces catch my eye until we get to the end of the corridor and I see one that stands out from all the rest. It's a striking depiction of a snowstorm, and in the center is a wolf staring at the viewer with the fearless gaze of a predator.
The piece reminds me of Henri Fuseli's work, a study in expressionist landscape art, but with a distinct style all its own. I look more closely at the signature, but I don't recognize the artist's name. L Livingstone. I wrack my brain trying to pull up anything I might have read or heard about him or her. Thanks to my studies, I'm well versed in artists past and present, but that name doesn't jog any memories, which surprises me given the incredible skill and artistic vision.
Nurse Schmidt stops before a door to the left and raps her knuckles against it three times sharply.
"Come in," a deep, male, British voice says.
The nurse opens the door and gestures for me to enter. "Celeste D'LeLune here for her session."
I walk in, a nervousness gripping me.
The office is pretty standard. A desk, a bookshelf lined with medical and psychiatric books, a chair and a loveseat with a small side table. And more art by L Livingstone, each painting more striking than the next.
The man behind the desk is the most remarkable part of the room. He stands as I enter, and my breath hitches. He's absolutely beautiful, like an angel straight out of a Michelangelo.
His rich sepia-toned skin contrasts brilliantly with cobalt eyes that hold the depth of the ocean itself. His jaw is squared and chiseled, and his dark hair is short and stylishly messy. He's tall, lean, and fills out his suit with muscle that looks earned from more than just time in a gym. He taps his long, slender fingers against the desk and frowns when he looks at me. I resist the urge to fold my arms over my chest, very aware of the thinness of my gown.
"Nurse Schmidt, why is Miss D'LeLune's cheek bruising?"
The British accent is faint, a leftover from some time long past. His lips are set in a thin line as he stares down said nurse, waiting for her answer.
I turn my head to see her response and am morbidly pleased to see her defiance shrink into fear under his hard gaze.
"She back-talked me and needed to be taught a lesson."
The doctor walks around his desk, his eyes not wavering from hers as he stalks forward until he's inches from her. "That kind of behavior towards our patients will not be tolerated. Do you understand?"