Page 153 of Maksym

A strange thing happened inside me then.

Fear rose first. Immediate. Animal. It knew before my rational mind did what might be on that screen. It remembered white walls, polished floors, locked doors. It remembered Lucian’s chair beside the bed. It remembered hearing muffled crying once through a vent and spending three days trying to decide whether knowing another captive existed made the world better or worse.

Then the prosecutor rose after it.

Not louder.

Straighter.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

Maksym did not tell me not to. His hand moved beneath the table and rested palm-up beside my thigh.

Available.

I laid one of my palms upon his.

Not because I needed help. But because I was no longer alone.

Lucia pressed play.

The footage flickered once, then moved.

The loading bay door opened from the inside. A man stepped out first, tall and fair-haired, long blond hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Even in poor video, even at an angle, I knew him before his face turned.

My body recognized Lucian Devereaux as if terror had its own eyesight.

My jaw set so hard pain sparked near my ear.

He was dressed beautifully, of course. Dark coat. Gloves. The posture of a man inconvenienced by logistics rather than participating in a crime. Another elder stood near him, older in bearing, severe in profile, his face partially obscured by poor camera angle and shadow. They spoke briefly. No sound. That made it worse, somehow. Their gestures were calm. Discussing weather. Wine. Shipment.

The door behind them opened wider.

Two guards emerged, each holding a human by the arm.

The woman stumbled.

My hands pressed into Maksym’s. Hard. Harder. His fingers closed around mine. Present. Grounding.

The woman on the screen tried to turn her head toward something behind her. A guard shoved her forward. A man followed, thinner than he should have been, shirt hanging from his frame. Another woman. Another man. Four. Six. Eight.

The footage cut.

Another angle. Interior hallway. People being moved in a line. Some walked as if drugged. One struggled until the unnamed elder touched his face. The man went slack at once.

Compulsion.

My stomach turned.

I was not human anymore. My body no longer performed nausea quite the same way, but memory did, and memory had no respect for biology.

The footage cut again.

A transport vehicle. Doors open. Bodies loaded inside like cargo that happened to breathe. Lucian stood to one side, watching. At one point, he smiled at something the other elder said.

That smile.

I had seen that smile from a bed where chains bit my wrists.