Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(60)

“Answer me!” he snaps.

“No, not yet, but Obadiah’s—”

“Nothing. That boy is nothing. To me, to you, to anyone. His father should’ve gone with the female gene chromosomes displayed at birth and been done with it. That boy will never be a man. And this illusion is done. You’ve had your fun running around playing at spy or callgirl or whatever suits your fancy. Your time’s up. I want the device back. Now, give it to me.”

I don’t move.

He leans forward in his chair. His eyes flick to something over my shoulder. The cabinet. His voice drops to a whisper and he smiles in a way that wrenches my gut. “You can give it to me now. Or, I will take it from your person. The choice is entirely yours.”

My shoulders sag in defeat, and I retrieve the remote. I set it on the small table between us.

The anger I held onto so easily earlier is quickly leaking away. My skin hums in fear that I desperately try to ignore. Does he know where they are? Has he found our hiding place? How much has he seen?

How well did my pretenses with Obadiah—or even Linc, outside near the warehouse that day—work if Titus knew I had the device this entire time?

“There’s a party tomorrow,” he continues. “It’s important. Things will change after that. You may or may not be needed to continue your current assignment, but you most certainly will have no way of stopping me. I’m tired of indulging your fantasies of escape or freedom. You haven’t kept up your end of our agreement. I see no reason to keep up mine.”

That forces my attention back. I sit up in my chair. “What do you mean?”

“You agreed to help me find them. I agreed to let them live. Your friends in the City. Your boyfriend here. They are of no use to me any longer. Not when you aren’t giving me anything in return.”

“But … Lonnie and Ida were made for someone. You can’t just terminate them. What if their Authentic needs them?”

“Their Authentics cancelled the order months ago. Crawford is more a thorn in my side every day I allow him to live. Even Whitcomb is edging toward the wrong side of my attention. Although, he became his father’s problem the day that imbecile chose a male over a female. At any rate, our deal is null and void as I see it.”

Months? What is he talking about, Obadiah’s father chose …? I blink it all away and focus on the bottom line of the threats Titus has made. “You won’t do it,” I say. But it’s an empty accusation. We both know he will.

“I already have.”

My head snaps to attention. “What?”

Titus hands me a screen resting between us on the small table. I take it, hands shaking, and look at the screen. My insides scream to look away, to smash it to the floor before whatever horrors are played out. But I know better. If Titus is showing me something like this, it means damage, somewhere, has already been done.

The screen shows nothing at first. A sterile room, medical and bare, with a white-tiled floor. The lighting is yellowed under the glow of the fluorescents. Nothing moves. No sound comes through the speakers. I blink and wait.

A door creaks. Wheels, a gurney rolls into view. A woman in a white shift pushes it to a stop in the center of the room. I recognize her as the wing nurse for our floor. She never said much and I never had reason to see her directly but I know it’s her. She pulls the gurney to a stop and turns toward the camera. A tiny emblem of a tree is emblazoned on the fabric of her dress. Her brows raise questioningly. The hair on my arms stands on end.

She turns back to the gurney, to a bulge covered by a sheet. With a delicate hand, she grips the corner of the sheet and peels it back.

I gasp.

“Ida!” The woman flinches as if she can hear me and retreats from the camera’s view. I am left with a clear shot of Ida’s lifeless body, her face pointed upward, her skin pale-ish blue under the lights.

“What did you do to her?” I demand.

“What you provoked,” he says, and his words are laced with all the evil it takes to end a life.

“No,” I choke out before my sobs cut off any more words.

Titus doesn’t respond. I can feel him watching me as I grip the edges of the screen and bawl at the sight of my dead friend. “No, no, no,” I chant when my voice surfaces. Soon, her soft face is blurred by a pool of tears I’ve shed on the screen. Still, I cry and mumble and hate how this ended for her.

I don’t know how long he sits there, watching me crumble. It’s long enough that my tears dry up and my insides grow cold, then numb.

Eventually, he takes the screen back from my limp hands. “You have a role to play at this party. I expect you to play it. One last time. After that, you and I are going to have a serious chat about your future, bleak as it seems right now.” The implication hangs in the air, a switch just waiting to be flipped. I get one more night as Raven Rogen. The GPS in my arm pulses.

Unwilling to meet his eyes, I stare at a framed photo on the wall of Titus accepting some award or another. The man handing it over looks very studious in glasses and a beige tie. It’s like every other photograph in this house, polished and appropriate. It’s what Titus has allowed others to see. But I remember a different photograph. Depicting a woman Titus obviously prefers not seen by his men or the countless Ravens he has paraded through his home.

And then there’s me. He’s made it more than clear he’s willing to hurt me. His threats carry weight and I cannot even pretend a lie that says I’m not afraid of this man. Not after what he’s just proven capable of. And yet—