Origin by Jennifer L. Armentrout Page A

understood now how Dawson couldn’t keep track of time. Everything blended here, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen the sun or the night sky. I wasn’t served breakfast like I had the first day I’d been awake, which threw off the time of day for me, and the only way I knew when a full forty-eight hours had passed was when I was taken to Dr. Roth for blood work. I’d seen him around five times, maybe more.
    I’d lost count.
    I’d lost a lot of things. Or it felt that way. Weight. The ability to smile or laugh. Tears. The only thing I retained was anger, and each time I squared off with Mo or another hybrid I didn’t know—didn’t even care to get to know because of what we had to do—my anger and frustration went up a notch. It surprised me that I could still feel so much.
    But I hadn’t given in yet. I hadn’t fought back during any of the stress tests. It was my only means of control.
    I refused to fight them—to beat up on them or potentially kill them if things got out of hand. It was like being in a real, albeit messed-up, version of The Hunger Games .
    The Hunger Games for alien hybrids.
    I started to grin but winced as the motion pulled my torn lip. I might have refused to go all Terminator on them, but the other hybrids were so on board. So much so that some of them talked while they kicked my ass. They told me that I needed to fight, that I needed to prepare for the day the other Luxen came and for those who were already here. It was obvious they sincerely believed that the true villains were the Luxen. They may have been drinking the Kool-Aid, but I was not. Even so, there was a tiny part of me that wondered how Daedalus could control so many if there wasn’t some truth in what they were saying?
    And then there was Shawn, the Luxen who wanted to kill thousands of humans. If I were to believe Dasher, there were a hell of lot more like him out there—just waiting to take over Earth. But to even think that Daemon or Dee, or even Ash, was a part of something like that…I couldn’t even consider it.
    Forcing my eyes open, I saw the same thing I always saw after being hauled out of the training rooms and deposited—mostly unconscious—in my cell. The white ceiling with little black dots—a mixture of onyx and diamond.
    God, I hated those dots.
    I took a deep breath and cried out, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Sharp pain radiated across my ribs from a Mo-size kick. My entire body throbbed. There wasn’t one part of me that didn’t ache.
    Movement from the farthest corner of my cell, by the door, drew my attention. Slowly and quite painfully, I turned my head.
    Archer stood there, bundling a cloth in his hand. “I was beginning to worry.”
    I cleared my throat and then opened my jaw, wincing. “Why?”
    He came forward, the beret forever hiding his eyes. “You were out for a while this time, the longest yet.”
    I turned my head back to the ceiling. I hadn’t realized that he was keeping track of my ass-kickings. He hadn’t been here other times when I awoke. Neither had Blake. I hadn’t seen that ass-hat in a while, and I wasn’t sure he was even here anymore.
    I drew in a slower, longer breath. As sad as it was, when I was awake, I missed the moments of oblivion. It wasn’t always just a black, vast nothingness. Sometimes I dreamed of Daemon, and when I was awake I clung to those faint images that seemed to blur and fade the minute I opened my eyes.
    Archer sat on the edge of the bed, and my eyes snapped open. The aching muscles tensed. Although he proved to be not so bad, all things considered, I trusted no one.
    He held up the bundle. “It’s just ice. Looks like you could use it.”
    I watched him warily. “I don’t…I don’t know what it looks like.”
    “ It being your face?” he asked, palming the bundle. “It doesn’t look pretty.”
    It didn’t feel pretty. Ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder, I tried to pull my arm out from under the blanket. “I can