The Gender Lie (The Gender Game #3) by Bella Forrest (ebook reader for laptop TXT) 📗

today within an hour. No one is to leave until I get to the bottom of this event.”

Several people peeled off to follow her orders. Desmond turned, rubbing her temples lightly. When she saw me staring at her, she dropped her hands.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I licked my lips and swallowed the excess saliva that had built up. The pain in my shoulder had faded some, and my jaw ached down to the bone, but I nodded. “I’m okay,” I said, climbing ungracefully to my feet. “What did you do to my brother?”

“I gave him a sedative,” she replied.

“So what, you were just carrying that around waiting for him to explode like that?” I couldn’t help but ask, clenching my fists. Desmond had never hidden her compunctions about having my brother around; it was why she insisted that he be shadowed by a Liberator guard whenever he left our room.

Desmond’s lips flattened to a thin line, her eyebrows almost touching her hairline. “Ms. Bates,” she said, her tone clipped. “That is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that you have been disrespectful and rude to me. While it is understandable that you are upset at the moment, you would do well to remember that had I not shown up, your brother may have killed you and young Mr. Hughes over there.” I looked over to where Quinn was now sitting slumped against the table, his hand clutching his stomach as his face turned an interesting shade of green.

“Now,” continued Desmond, her voice dangerously low. “I understand that you have trust issues with authority figures, so allow me to answer your question. No, I have not been carrying a syringe in my pocket with the expectation of your brother losing control. I was notified that he was in a rage, and grabbed a sedative from the lab just in case.”

Once again, Desmond’s argument served to suck the fire out of me, leaving the remnants of a sputtering coal of embarrassment that lodged in my throat.

“Sorry,” I mumbled after a few seconds.

Desmond sighed loudly and brought her hands in front of her, lacing the fingers together. “No, I’m sorry, Violet. As I said, I recognize that you have severe trust issues, and perhaps I came down a little too hard on you yesterday. I felt… bad after our conversation. I regret giving you the impression that I would have the pills destroyed, and should have perhaps notified you of my decision not to. I’m not used to having people question my orders. The circumstances that brought us together are unique, and merit special consideration in some matters.”

I nodded, taken aback by her apology. “Thanks,” was all I could think to say.

She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Which is why we need to talk about your brother,” she said, her face grim.

I looked down at where Tim was lying on the floor. “What about him?”

Desmond gave me a steady look, and then half turned, allowing me to gaze out on the wreckage. Looking at the injured people in the room, I saw the confusion and anger in their faces.

“What do you propose?” I pressed, my heart beating painfully against my chest.

She turned back to me, a sad look on her face. “He can’t be allowed to roam around the facility anymore,” she said, her voice and eyes sympathetic.

I closed my eyes and felt a tear slip from under my eyelid and fall down my cheek. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to resist the painful reality of what Desmond was trying to say, and nodded.

“I understand,” I said, even as I hated myself for it.

22

Violet

I was physically and emotionally drained as I trudged up the stairs. I had spent the last three hours doing everything I could to help clear the wreckage that my brother had caused, and it still didn’t seem like I had done enough to help.

After a long discussion with Desmond, we had decided that, for the time being, my brother was to remain confined to the room downstairs that had been used for Viggo’s interrogation. Tim wasn’t allowed to leave without me and one other Liberator to go with him, and even then, he could only go with special permission from Desmond.

Owen and Quinn had helped me carry him downstairs, and Quinn had been kind enough to offer to go upstairs and get Samuel and the blankets Tim had been using to form his little nest on the floor. I had been surprised at his offer, and told him not to worry about it, but he insisted. Owen told me that it was because Quinn felt guilty—he had reacted to Tim’s step toward me as an act of aggression, and had been trying to stop Tim from hurting me. I guessed I couldn’t blame him. A part of me wanted to, though.

I had pushed that part aside—there was no blaming anyone. The reports that came in were that my brother had slipped down to grab a snack. Apparently Henrik had approached him, and said a few words to him—no one was sure what though—but apparently Tim had been smiling a little bit.

Until Henrik clapped him on the shoulder. The reports around this were murky—some people said it was a light punch, others said that Henrik was picking something off Tim’s shirt. Everyone agreed that Henrik had touched him, and that’s what had triggered the violent reaction in Tim.

I ran a hand over my face. Tim’s condition made him physically hurt when anyone touched him. Apparently it was called synesthesia, a genetic disorder that confused the senses, and in Tim’s case, made touch cause physical pain. I could just imagine what had happened to Tim, and how confused it would make him when he woke up.

Dr. Tierney had assured me I had a few hours before that happened, which was why I was making my way back upstairs. I needed something positive at the moment, and there was