Chapter 17
“Ahem, Mr. Wilcox, am I interrupting?” The stranger asked primly.
Stan looks warily between the newcomer and me before slowly lowering his fist. “It’s Dr. Wilcox, to you. And yes, you are interrupting,” he corrects the other man derisively, determined to remain in control of the situation despite the blood pouring down his face. “My student and I were just having a…conversation. I’ve got a few questions that need answering.”
The blonde man’s gaze flickers across me only for a moment, but by the way his lips purse ever so slightly, I get the impression that he knows exactly what type of conversation had just been taking place.
“Shame, you’ll need to hold onto those questions for a while longer.
Deep frown lines crease Stan’s face as his expression grows increasingly hostile. “No, I don’t think so. She’s my student, from my crew, you get me? That means she’s my responsibility.”
The way Stan says responsibility sounds an awful lot like property. Fortunately, the newcomer doesn’t intimidate easily. “Need I remind you that we are on Enigma property? As long as Ms. Addison is a guest here, she is our responsibility.” He gives Stan a pointed look over the rim of his glasses, “As are you, Dr. Wilcox.”
I struggle to follow along with the line of conversation, but I’m surprised when Stan backs down. He raises his hands as if the man in the lab coat is the one here in need of calming, “Alright, alright, I hear you. I don’t want any trouble.”
The other man gives the tiniest smirk, “Then might I suggest you report to the infirmary and get yourself cleaned up? It looks like your conversation may have gotten a little out of hand.”
Stan scowls, and without another word, walks off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He slams the door behind him, but when he does, it’s just me and the bespeckled stranger. One one hand, I’m grateful to have Stan put in his place. On the other…I’m very much aware that I’m chained to an unknown bed in an unknown location with an unknown man.
I look at the door and wonder if I hadn’t been better off with Stan.
After all, at least he was the devil I knew.
The unfamiliar man in the white lab coat takes a cautious step toward me. “Ms. Addison, how are you feeling?”
I stare at him, mouth agape at the ridiculous question. I’m disheveled, bruised, battered, and not to mention handcuffed to a fucking bed.
“Not great,” I finally reply, my voice still hoarse from trying desperately to hold back the sobs clawing to escape. Too many thoughts clamor around inside my skull, none of them making sense. With nothing else to offer, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “C-can you please untie me?”
The man’s eyes shoot wide behind his glasses. “Oh! Of course!” He scrambles to set down the clipboard in his hand and hurries to my side. “Apologies for what I’m sure must have been a rude awakening,” he says, uncuffing me from the bed. “I had hoped to be the first person you saw when you recovered.”
Recovered, I think. That’s one way to put it. One by one, he releases my wrists and ankles. I immediately push myself into a sitting position, tucking my bare legs beneath me. I rub my wrists, surprised to find them relatively unchafed, and a furtive glance at the cuffs confirms that they were indeed padded. Interesting, I think.
“Mind telling me why I was restrained in the first place?”
He straightens, adjusting his glasses. “Well, you weren’t, at least not initially. Upon arrival, you were fine, but then Dr. Wilcox administered another dose of sedative, which made you…restless.”
“Restless?” I ask.
“A lot of thrashing…some biting,” he shrugs. “We figured you were having a negative reaction to whatever disgusting little cocktail Wilcox was pumping you with and didn’t want you to further aggravate your injuries.” He nods toward my shoulder, where I now see the bandage covering the spot where Stan shot me. Bastard.
“Who, exactly, is ‘we’?”
He straightens up at the question, a thoughtful look on his face. Then, he hands me a bundle from a nearby table, gesturing toward a door on the far wall. “Here. Get cleaned up, and I’ll show you.”
Hesitantly, I take the bundle and watch as he heads for the door to give me privacy while I change. “Wait! I don’t know your name.”
He pauses. “Peter. Dr. Peter Baird,” he says with a small smile. “I’ll be waiting just outside.”
When I’m alone, what feels like days' worth of frustration, disappointment, and fear converge on me all at once, and I begin to weep. I can’t believe Wake is gone, nor can I completely understand the confusing mix of feelings I have about the merman.
He frightened me, but I can’t deny the instinctual pull I feel toward him. I felt we’d been on the verge of something monumental, and it breaks my heart that I’ll never be able to see where our road was leading.
Determined not to wallow in what feels like misplaced grief, I tell myself I need to toughen up. I’d only known Wake for a day, and it had been one of the worst and most confusing days of my life. Now, I am alone and in unfamiliar territory with at least one person gunning for me. I can’t afford to be seen as vulnerable.
I wipe away my tears, grab the bundle of clothing, and make my way into the small adjoining bathroom. I hop into the shower and turn the water on high. As the steam builds, it smells faintly of fresh rain and sea salt…Wake.
His scent is the last thing I have to remember him by, and it is all at once enveloping me and washing down the drain forever. I shove a fist to my lips to stifle a hard sob. After that brief moment of weakness, I steel myself, grab the bottle of liquid soap from the shower shelf, and vigorously scrub away every last remnant of Wake from my body and mind.
When I can smell nothing but the cold, antiseptic scent of vanilla, I shut the water off, dry off, and dress in the loose-fitting cotton tunic and pants Peter provided. There’s a packaged toothbrush and toothpaste that I use, and by the time I finish with a splash of water to my face, I feel more like myself than I have in days.
I take a moment to study myself in the mirror, and I’m not exactly impressed by what I see. It’s not that I look terrible—quite the opposite, in fact. My sable hair is in sore need of a trim, but my ever-present waves are responding well enough to the humidity, looking fuller rather than frizzy.
Spending the better part of a week at sea has given me a warm, almost dusky complexion that makes my green eyes look brighter than usual and helps hide the majority of my bruises. I look better than I feel, far better than I deserve to after the week I’ve had, and just the sight of my own reflection makes me feel like a fraud.
I want to chop my hair off and poke and prod each cut and bruise until my skin reflects the way I feel inside—distressed. Incomplete.
But I don’t have the luxury of breaking down, so instead, I lift my chin and hold my head high as I exit to find Peter sitting at a picnic table underneath a palm tree, tapping away at his tablet. Wait, I think, a palm tree?
I look up and finally take in my surroundings, then turn in a slow circle to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. I’ve been taken to a tropical island, although where is still a mystery. The hut-like room I woke up in turns out to be one of about a dozen little bungalows that make up a small village surrounding a large, modernistic dome building.
“Where the hell am I?” I breathe
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