Broken Bonds (The Bonds that Tie #1) - J. Bree Page 0,3

have to get a hold of myself, to find that calm within myself so I don't lose control of my gift. It might sound sick, but I imagine how I would use my abilities to get out of here to get calm again. I plan every little moment of how I would get out and how I would get payback on those men who had just touched me. I walk through those plans, over and over, until I feel calm once again.

Minutes creep into hours and eventually I know the sun has gone down and I'm still fucking stuck here. I desperately need to pee, but I'm not going to knock on the door and ask for a toilet break. My stomach begins to growl. When had they found me and grabbed me off of the street, two days ago? Maybe three now. I'd been on my way to work, late and having skipped breakfast.

No one has given me food since. One of the drivers had shoved a bottle of water at me that I'd guzzled down greedily, but that had to be at least a day ago. These guys aren't at all afraid of torture because I feel like a freaking prisoner of war right now.

The door opens again and this time an older, stern-looking woman walks in. My leg starts to bounce nervously under the table, an old tick I can't let go of.

"Follow me, I'll take you to freshen up."

Freshen up? I glance down at the mess my clothes are in. I probably stink too after days in the same clothes. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

My head spins when I stand up. Blood loss or hunger, I don't know, but the lady doesn't notice me swaying on my feet at all. She just wrinkles her nose at me and then turns on her heel to lead me out of the room.

The building we're in looks like an office building, everyone wearing suits and ties. As we walk through the halls together, my skin starts to pull tight as I feel the eyes of the workers here on me. There's a lot of interest and it's pretty obvious they all know who I am.

Oleander Fallows.

The runaway Bond.

The murderer.

Not that they know I'm a murderer, I'm sure this would all be going very differently if they did. A lump forms in my throat as I think about it. Hell, that's the quickest way to freak out and lose control. I give myself a shake. Stop fucking thinking about it, Oli!

The bathroom is clean enough and the shower is an actual stall, thank God. The woman shoves a bag at me, one I hadn't noticed her carrying thanks to my freak out, and snaps, "I don't have all night, so you better be quick. I'll drag you out naked if I have to."

Right.

Fuck this bitch.

I give her a dirty look and take the bag, stomping into the stall as if I'm four years old and not the mature nineteen that I am. Well, I think I'm mature. I've survived five years on the run, living on the streets when I've needed to. It hasn't been easy, but it's better than the alternative.

This is the alternative.

Being chipped and forced to live with the men who are biologically fated to be mine... that's the worst fucking hellsphere I can think of. Not that I've met them. I've only seen photos of them, little headshots that were handed over to me the day after my family was killed. I can barely remember what any of them look like, but I remember their names.

I strip off and scrub down, wincing at the state of myself. I'm covered in bruises. The Tactical Team hadn't been kind in their takedown of me, three fully grown men had slammed me to the ground. I'm not exactly tiny but fuck... One guy grabbing me would have done the job.

My hair is a mess, so I wash it and then dry it carefully. The clothes they've left for me are ugly, sweatpants that are at least three sizes too big and an old sweatshirt. The smell of cologne on it makes me want to hurl, my bond is so freaking picky about scents.

I hear the woman start to tap her foot and I roll my eyes. What a bitch.

I leave the stall with my old clothes bundled up in the bag and the hairbrush in my other hand.

"There's no time to try to pretty yourself up. I doubt you'd be able