Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(21)

He continues, and it’s the most I’ve heard him speak, even if every word drips scorn. “If I want socks, a pack of gum, gas money for my piece-of-crap truck that’s always breaking down . . . I have to earn it.” His gaze scours over me. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, princess?”

I flinch, feeling shamed. Just like he intended.

But then something happens. I start to get mad. Anger warms my face, creeps over my ears in a stinging wash of heat. “A princess in a cage?” I cock my head. “I’ve never heard of that particular fairy tale. You don’t know anything about me. I might have had certain advantages, but I’m still in here with you. Don’t judge me.”

He laughs lightly, the sound low and deep. “Don’t judge you? That’s funny. You better get used to the world judging you. You’re a carrier now. That’s all there is.”

“I won’t ever get used to that.” I shake my head, vowing this to myself.

He considers me. “You’re going to have a hard road if you can’t accept what you are.”

“Like you do?”

He nods.

I press a hand to my chest. “I’ll never accept it.”

He looks at me strangely, almost curiously, his eyes less hard. There’s a glint of something in his gaze as he looks at me. For a moment, he doesn’t seem so harsh, so ruthless. Which unnerves me almost more.

I snatch the work sheet off the desk and storm to my seat in a huff, deciding I’d had enough for one day. We have a week to complete the project. I’ll finish the interview when I’m less pissed. Or maybe I’ll make it up. Who’s to know? I doubt he’ll care.

I don’t know what the Agency hopes to accomplish by having us get to know each other. Maybe they hope that we’ll dislike each other so much that we’ll turn on one another. Kill each other off so that the world doesn’t have to worry about carriers anymore.

Only it dawns on me as I sit there that I don’t dislike him exactly. He scares me—yes. No denying that. But a part of me admires him. This boy who walks around almost proudly, like he doesn’t care what the world thinks of him. Even imprinted, there’s nothing beaten or cowed about him.

The scathing way he called me “princess” rings in my ears, and I’m sure he dislikes me. And that, for some reason, bothers me.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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The female carrier should be considered no less a threat purely because of gender—or because of her small subset within HTS carrier population. Her anomalous existence begs careful consideration. In a manner, she is more complicated than her male counterpart. Without DNA testing, she would likely be entirely unidentifiable. Her actions are less predictable and she should, ergo, be viewed as extremely dangerous and treated with extreme caution. . . .


—Lecture from Dr. Wainwright to the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico





NINE




LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I RISE FROM MY DESK and approach the Cage door. From the left corner of my eye, I try to see what it is Sean is working on. It looks like a work sheet. I could have probably turned my head to get a better look. It’s not as though he would catch me looking and mistake my interest for . . . well, interest. He’s oblivious to me, not even looking up as I pass him.

Brockman motions me through the door.

“Davina. What can I do for you?” That he insists on using my full name grates on my nerves. Like he’s somehow this mature, responsible grown-up who doesn’t go around molesting young girls.

I glance back into the Cage. Just a quick look and, sure enough, Coco is turned around in her desk, watching us, her dark eyes alert and wary.

I face him again. “Can I use the bathroom?” He takes a long moment before answering. Making me wait uncomfortably in front of him. I shouldn’t have consumed so much water at lunch. I’ll have to quit doing that if it means having to ask him to use the restroom every afternoon.

Leaning forward over his desk, he scribbles a pass for me. Tearing it off, he hands it to me. When I reach for it he pulls it back. “Don’t be long,” he warns. Jerk.

“I want to go, too!” Nathan shouts from his desk.

“Shut up, Nathan,” Brockman replies mildly, finally letting me have the pass.

Nodding, I turn and push open one of the heavy metal doors. It bangs shut behind me, echoing off the narrow corridor. I hurry past the workout room, not even looking inside. The sound of male voices and the clang of weights tells me there’s a group in there working.

The girls’ bathroom is small, just two stalls. I’m in the second stall when the door creaks open. I finish but hesitate inside the cramped space. I don’t know why. Maybe because this time of day, there don’t seem to be any girls down here. It was just the sound of guys in the workout room, and I imagine the girls’ locker room has its own bathroom.

Standing, I listen, lightly resting my hand against the cold, graffiti-riddled door. Straining to hear something, I lean forward, waiting for the sound of running water in the faucet. Or the door in the neighboring stall swinging open and shut. Normal sounds of someone in here simply doing their business.