Ch.17: The Pact

"You can hear me?"

The question hangs in the air, heavier than the humidity in the room. Aris isn't looking at Greta's retreating back. He isn't looking at the open door. He is looking at me.

His eyes are narrowed, scanning my face for the microscopic tells I've learned to suppress.

I don't react. I can't. The diluted drug in my veins gives me movement, but not speed. If I flinch now, he'll know. And if he knows, he'll kill me before Greta can get Leo to the car.

He steps closer. The tablet in his hand glows, casting a blue light on his cheekbones.

"The system logged an access event," he murmurs, more to himself than me. "Override code Janus. Only two people know that code."

He stops at the foot of the bed.

"Me," he says. "And my late wife."

He looks at the keyboard resting on my chest.

"Did you type it, Elena?" he asks softly. "Did you wake up just to spite me?"

He laughs. It’s a dry, humorless sound.

"Of course not. You're a vegetable. A battery."

He reaches out and picks up the keyboard. He examines it.

"Greta," he concludes. "She must have been watching me enter it. Trying to access the pharmacy logs for her son."

He shakes his head, disappointed.

"Foolish woman. She thinks stealing drugs will save him."

He doesn't know she took the boy. He thinks she's just a thief.

He tosses the keyboard onto the tray table. It lands with a clatter.

Then he looks at the IV pump.

He frowns.

He leans in closer. He checks the digital display. **10 mcg/kg/min**.

The setting is correct.

But Aris is a perfectionist. He notices details.

He flicks the IV bag with his fingernail.

"The color is off," he whispers.

He unhooks the bag. He holds it up to the light.

The yellow tint is too pale.

"Diluted," he hisses.

He spins around, looking at the door Greta fled through.

"She tampered with the drip."

He looks back at me. A new, terrifying understanding dawns in his eyes.

"You're not under, are you?"

He drops the bag. It hits the floor and bursts, spraying the diluted poison across his shoes.

He lunges for me.

His hands—strong, surgeon's hands—wrap around my throat.

"Wake up!" he screams. He shakes me. "Wake up, you bitch!"

My head lolls back and forth. I keep my eyes glassy. I keep my jaw slack.

But inside, my body is screaming. The adrenaline from his attack is fighting the last remnants of the drug. My heart rate spikes.

*65... 70... 75.*

The monitor screams. *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*

"Stop playing dead!" Aris roars. He squeezes harder. My windpipe compresses. Black spots dance in my vision.

"I know you're in there! I can feel your pulse!"

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to strangle me right here, and then he’ll just say I coded.

I have to move.

I focus on my hand. My right hand. It’s lying on the mattress next to his hip.

I send the signal.

*Clench.*

My fingers curl. Slowly. Jerkily.

They find the fabric of his silk pajama bottoms. They grip.

Aris freezes.

He looks down. He sees my hand clutching his leg.

"I knew it," he breathes.

He lets go of my throat. He grabs my wrist. He lifts my hand up to my face.

"Look at that," he sneers. "A reflex? Or a request?"

He twists my wrist. Pain shoots up my arm.

"Greta diluted the bag," he says, piecing it together. "She's been waking you up. Why? To talk? To conspire?"

He drops my hand.

He walks to the wall panel. He punches in a code.

**SECURITY ALERT: PERIMETER BREACH. EAST WING.**

The automated voice echoes through the house.

Aris stares at the screen.

"She took him," he whispers. The realization hits him like a physical blow. "She took the boy."

He turns back to me. His face is twisted with a rage so pure it looks like madness.

"You helped her," he accuses. "You opened the door."

He pulls the gun from his waistband—he must have retrieved it when he heard the alarm.

He points it at my head.

"If she gets away," he says, his voice trembling, "I will take your other eye. And then your tongue. And then your hands."

He backs away toward the door.

"Don't go anywhere, darling. I have to go catch a thief."

He runs out of the room.

I am alone.

My throat burns. My wrist aches.

But the drug is fading fast now. The adrenaline surge from the strangulation has flushed the system.

I try to lift my head.

It’s heavy, like a bowling ball, but it moves. I lift it an inch off the pillow.

I try to sit up.

My abs quiver. They fail. I collapse back down.

But my arms work.

I lift my right hand. I bring it up to my face. I touch the eyepatch over my missing eye.

Then I look at my hand.

I spread the fingers.

Then I close them.

Tight.

My knuckles turn white. My nails dig into my palm.

It isn't a twitch. It isn't a spasm.

It is a fist.

My fingers can now close into a fist. I am weaponized.