Derek's POV
Cold metal bites into my wrists. My head feels like someone stuffed it with cotton and hammered nails through my skull. The ceiling above me is white. Hospital white. The kind that makes you think of death and antiseptic.
I try to move. Can't. Leather straps hold me down tight against what feels like a medical table. My arms, my legs, even across my chest. They really don't want me going anywhere.
"Awake, are we?"
That voice. The silver-haired b***h from the warehouse. I turn my head and there she is, standing next to some fancy machine that's beeping softly. She looks different now. More human, but that just makes her scarier.
"Dr. Vasquez," she says, like I asked. "Though most subjects simply call me Doctor."
"I'll call you b***h," I croak. My throat feels like sandpape
