"You can't sit in silence all day," Axel says.

If that's what he thinks, he has another thing coming to him. I can stay silent for a lot longer than just a day. I readjust my position on the couch in the waiting area of this torture palace, and Axel is sitting in front of me on the metal coffee table with his forearms pressed into the meat of his thighs. I’m taking a guess that he thinks if he stares at me long enough, I'll tell him what he wants to hear—that whoever made the mistake of not securing that psycho bitch well enough, is forgiven. Either that or he's truly scared I'm going to walk away and open my mouth to someone about what they're doing. It makes me wonder why he didn't have me sign any papers before participating in their practices.

"When do I get paid?" I ask.

"Who said anything about money?" Axel replies, lifting his head and staring me square in the eyes. You must be fucking kidding me.

"You hired me. Normally, when a person hires another, there is compensation involved," I argue.

"Right, but we told you we'd take care of you and give you food, room, and board. I'm pretty sure we've done that, no?"

I sit up straighter on the couch, feeling the rush of blood fill the inside of my head. The headache I had from last night has exacerbated tenfold from being clocked in the head by the murderer down the hall. "So, let me know if I have this right—basically, you're going to use me as a punching bag so none of you get your pretty faces damaged, and you're not going to pay me?"

"You think we all have pretty faces?" Everett chimes in from behind the front desk. What is he even doing over there? He's been tapping a pen against his lips for the last thirty minutes. Surely there can’t be that many thoughts swimming around in that head of his.

With a blaze of fury firing through me, I clench my jaw, holding back the words I'd like to share with them. "You know what you need?" Axel says, standing up and leaning over to the front desk for his phone.

"A new job?" I ask.

"Training," he responds, ignoring my suggestion. Axel looks back at Everett, giving him a look I'm glad I can't see.

"Who's going to train her?" Everett asks.

"Well, we're both well versed in Krav Maga and a few other martial arts," Axel tells him. "We can train her."

Everett laughs while leaning back in his chair. He's laughing so hard his chair almost flips over backward. "Yeah, sure, we can do that. I forgot that we're here to simply pass on the hard-earned skills you picked up in—"

"Enough, Everett," Axel interrupts him.

"What the hell are you two talking about, and what is Krav Maga?" I ask, looking at the two of them.

Everett stands up from his chair and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. The arrogant smirk playing across his face tells me nothing good will come out of the next few minutes. What I do know is, neither one of them better come anywhere near me right now.

They position themselves in the center of the clear space between where I’m sitting and the office furniture setup.

Axel mimics Everett’s moves and rolls his sleeves up too. They both untuck their shirts and release the top two buttons before circling around each other like two angry dogs. I want to laugh at what I’m watching. Are they serious right now? After a long minute of staring each other down, the wrestling begins. Neither of them are making physical contact, but at the same time, they are clearly displaying what they would do to a person if the situation were to arise. It's a type of martial arts I'm not familiar with, nor have I ever seen. It does, however, look like the objective is death rather than pain.

I lean back into my seat, feeling only mildly intrigued. All I see are two good-looking men fighting. If that's what they do for enjoyment, I have no issue watching. I won't be participating, however.

Breathlessly, they separate and walk to opposite corners of the room, both holding their hands on their hips. "That's Krav Maga," Axel says. "It's the most intense form of martial arts—it's what some other countries use as their hand-to-hand combat technique."

"You didn’t touch each other," I say, laughing a bit.

"If we did, it wouldn’t be pretty, and avoidance is just as important as the art of striking," Axel says.

"So, who won?" I continue.

"Neither of us won. It was just to show you the idea." He’s looking at me like I’m ridiculous for asking, and I’m returning the look at him for pretending to fight with Everett, especially after the shit I’ve seen these last couple of days.

"So, you want to train me to fight like that, but just in make believe form?" I confirm, now having trouble holding my laugher in.

"It can't hurt," Everett interrupts.

I stand from the couch, feeling a little loopy and off-balance. "I thought you wanted me to help you fuck with people’s minds. I wasn't aware you needed me to beat the shit out of these ‘criminals’ too," I tell them, walking toward the only exit I know of.

"Whoa! Hang on now," Axel says. "Fighting is never our intention. Protection is, though."

"Great. Well, have fun protecting yourselves," I say, entering the dark hallway.

They let me go.

They let me make it all the way to the exit.

They let me leave.

The moment the cold hits my bare flesh and the wounds running along my face, I realize I'm back to nothing. I'm back to having no real identity, no money, no family, and no friends. Though, if I have to choose between all of that and having my face dented in on a daily basis, I'd rather be a bum on a street.

Outside of the hotel, I find the black SUV we were in last night, or at least it looks the same. I walk up to the passenger window, recognizing Chuck. Does he just sit here all day waiting for their call? Whatever. I begin to walk past the SUV, but not too far before hearing my name.

"Harley!" I inhale the cold wind through my nose and turn toward the open window, taking a couple of steps closer. "Where would you like to go?" Chuck asks.

"I'm not working with them anymore, so you don't have to drive me anywhere, but thank you anyway," I tell him.

Chuck shrugs his shoulders. "They have their days, Harley. This job doesn't come without a hefty price tag, and most of the time, the bad days outweigh the good. How about I pretend like I don't know you quit, and I take you where you want to go?"

I look at Chuck for a long second, and without further hesitation, I open the passenger door and slide in. The window we were speaking through closes and he shifts the vehicle out of park. "They told me to take you where you wanted to go," he confesses. "You're too valuable to lose."

"Damn it,Chuck," I groan. Chuck flashes a set of caring eyes in my direction, along with a charming smile. Getting a better look at him in the daylight, I see he’s closer to middle age than my age. Maybe this is what the veterans of Axel’s business do—drive people around all day. Makes tons of sense.

"How the hell am I valuable? Look at my face. Do you see what their last convict did to me? Now they want to train me in some twisted martial arts shit? I'm below average in height and weight, which doesn't exactly give me a good foot to stand on when it comes to fighting people."

"Buckle up, kid," he tells me.

I peel the seatbelt away from the door and wrap it around my body, clicking it into place. "You’re not going to convince me to stay," I tell him. "You're wasting your time. I should never have applied for their job, or whatever they want to call it."

Chuck pulls away from the curb and merges into the traffic. "You didn't apply for the job, Harley," he says.

"What are you talking about? I knocked on the door, inquiring about the free room and board."

Chuck laughs under his breath and takes a turn onto a narrow side street. "Do Axel and Everett strike you as the type to put out a ‘help wanted’ sign?"

This should have crossed my mind. At any point in the past few days, I should have focused on the thought of this being a trap. It crossed my mind, but desperation was too overbearing to face the truth. "Why did they bait me in? How did they know I needed a job? Or, better yet, how the hell did they know me at all?"

"Hun, I'm happy to help you and bring you to and fro, but I'm not their mouths," Chuck says, through a smoker’s laugh.

"Unbelievable." Kind of. They know way more about me that I gave them credit for. I spent too long with them and said too much. "Are they with the government?" Please, God, tell me no.

"So, anyway ... with that out of the way, is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

"Chuck!" I snap.

"Harley, everything is going to be okay. Believe me." I don’t believe him any more than I believe Axel or Everett. Desperation has fucking blinded me to everything I’ve avoided this past year. I should have known that as soon as I was evicted I’d have a million eyes waiting for my position of vulnerability. "Just tell me where you want to go."

I look down at my hands, observing the purple and blue bruises encircling my knuckles from when I tried to fight back. "The prison, please."

"Pardon me?" he asks, glancing in my direction with a raised brow.

"The prison," I repeat. "I have a friend I need to visit."

"Harley, this isn't my business, but that's no place for you to be. Don't you think?"

I glance away from my clenched hands and over to Chuck. "You're absolutely right. I have no business being there." I look away, facing the dark window. "Take me there, please."

Chuck doesn't argue or ask any further questions. Instead, he drives in the direction of the prison. Every few moments, he peers down at his smart watch where messages keep popping up—messages I can't see from here. Axel must have taps on where we are, or he has the SUV tapped. I figured, seeing as he let me walk out of the warehouse so easily.

We pull up to the prison and I remove my seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride," I tell him.

"I'll be waiting here for you," he responds, before unlocking the doors. I figured it wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of him.

I make my way through the normal routine of entering the prison, enduring the security check and questions, then I'm finally led back to Mason. I know he's going to be irate when he sees me, but I need him to answer my question.

I sit in front of the thick-paned window, facing Mason who has yet to look me in the eye. He's holding his head up with his hand and shaking his head with disappointment. "What the hell happened to you?" he mutters.

"I'm fine," I tell him.

He snaps his head up, glaring at me with anger. "The hell you are!"

"I need you to answer a question for me," I tell him.

He narrows his eyes and clutches his fists down on top of the short, white table beneath the glass. "You tell me what kind of trouble you've gotten yourself into, and I'll answer any question you want."

"It was a misunderstanding," I tell him.

"Says every battered woman," he quips.

"I'm not a battered woman, Mason. A woman did this to me."

He lifts his hands up in defense. "I'm not insinuating anything," he argues. "Who are you working for, Harley?"

"I can't tell you that," I say.

"You promised me you weren't going to be getting yourself in trouble. That was the deal," he argues.

"I'm not. I told you I'm helping for the greater good," I reply, leaning back into my chair, feeling the pain sear across my cheek.

"How did you get this job, Harley?"

I close my eyes and lean in toward the window. "It doesn't matter," I say, with a snipped inflection accenting my words.

"They found you, didn't they?" My lack of answer and facial expression gives him the answer he needs. "Jesus. You have two choices," he says quietly. "The first choice is to run like hell and get out of this state. The second choice is to give up."

"That's not fair," I tell him.

"Why do you think I'm in here, Harley? I’m protected in here at least. Pleading guilty was probably the smartest thing I could have done. Too many people are after us. You know that. I told you it was only a matter of time before all eyes were on you."

"This is it. I’m done." I tell him.

"You still have a chance to get away," he argues. "You don’t know what you’ll go through if they get their hands on you. Plus, depending on what hands find you first, you know what the outcome could be."

I run my fingers through my hair, scraping my nails against my scalp. I shake my head and look him right in the eyes. "Why did you do this to me? I wanted a career. I had aspirations. If I had a clue that you were conducting illegal practices, I never would have helped you."

"Keep your voice down," he shouts in a cold whisper. "My practices were not illegal. I was contracted to perform the research. Don’t you understand?"

"No, I don’t understand. Who were you contracted by? I was always under the impression that you were working on your own."

"The government," he answers simply.

"The government?" I question. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

He places his hand on his face and shakes his head.

"You said the ‘government’ ransacked your lab, taking everything except—whatever—then convicted you of murder? Yet, they contracted you first? Do you understand how your story doesn’t make sense? You’re contradicting yourself." His story changes so much, I can’t figure out where the truth ends and the lies begin.

He appears surprised by my questions and statements, but how could he not think I’d eventually find out? While I wanted to assume this was all a misunderstanding, I’m beginning to think otherwise.

"Well, yes and no. You know some of the research we performed didn’t go as planned, and for that reason, they had to put me away. The government couldn’t be left standing in front of the mess. When the news leaked, I lost the gamble. That’s the truth. I told you all the risks involved, and you went along with the research we were conducting." The risks … we could be well-known psychologists, Nobel Peace Prize winners ... or we could be criminals, but only with the slight chance that things went south, which ‘would never happen,’ but he’s saying they did go bad. The latter part of the options sounded more like a joke when explained to the rest of us. The first two options were the parts I was focused on. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help traumatized patients with PTSD undo the psychological damage done to them. It was what I spent my entire college career working toward. That, and I saw a chance to put my life’s passions together and jumped at the opportunity—music theory—and it seemed like a dream job. Not once did I truly consider that our research could cause damage or put us in the situations we’re in.

"I’m pretty sure you left out the part where the government contracted you, and there was a chance they’d lock us up afterward for knowing too much," I remind him. "And what part of the research didn’t go as planned? Did you really murder someone?" I was hoping it was false information. I was hoping there was confusion, or stories were mixed up. I was hoping he was wrongly convicted.

"You are very intelligent," he tells me. "You can still get away. You have to get out of this city for the next few years until I get out of here, Harley." He wants me to run from the government.

"Tell me. Did you kill someone using our research?" I’ve debated how to go about getting out of here for the last year, but with no money, and a fear of being found by the non-governmental scientists who are after Mason’s files, I’ve been forced to live in hiding, so my options have been limited.

"There isn’t a simple answer to your question," he argues, slamming his fists down. "I’m trying to protect you. That’s all I’m doing."

"Protect me? You’re stringing me along, using me as your safe until you need what I’m holding onto. You could have protected me by being honest before I agreed to your apprenticeship. Protecting me wasn’t convincing a landlord that you were my father so he’d take me in without a trace of credit to my name. Protecting me ... isn’t telling me to flee the state, or telling me never to contact my parents or friends again. You ruined my life."

Mason places his hand on the glass as if it’s a form of affection. "I never intended for this to happen."

"You know what—I’m turning the files in to an official. I’m not holding onto them for you anymore," I tell him. "That way, I’ll clear my name, right?" I’m not sure it’ll be that easy, but I can’t live like this anymore. I’ve been loyal to Mason for too long, and I’m seeing the truth now. He doesn’t care about me. He’s been using me all along.

"Harley," he hisses through a gritted snarl. "I sacrificed my freedom to keep that information private. It’s the only piece left. The government wants it, and they will exploit it. You have to understand."

What the hell is he talking about? "You told me you were going to turn it in at the end of your sentence in exchange for your freedom, which you need me for, if I’m not mistaken. You also told me this "thing" was wanted overseas by a private international company, which is why I had to be so protective. That’s who you said to watch out for, not the fucking government. Even after being detained by a government agent last year and almost questioned to death, you told me we didn’t have to worry about them since you took the fall."

"Well, I lied. They know the files are still out there, and they’re sure Isabelle Hammel is holding onto them for me. So, I just hope you didn’t walk right into the devil’s den and say something you shouldn’t have said." I most definitely walked right into a trap because, evidently, I had no fucking clue who the hell I was running from.

"You’re worried about me getting picked up by someone who works for the government, yet they’re probably listening to us right now," I tell him. As the words roll off my tongue, I consider the truth in what I’m saying. I also consider the possibility of being stopped on my way out of here. If I do get out, I think leaving this state might be my best option after all, but I don’t think that’ll help me in the long run. I’m screwed. They’ll find me, one way or another.

Mason looks down in thought. "I know you'll never turn those files in. It would cause so much more harm than good, and you’re a good person, Harley. The damage the two of us have already caused should be enough to keep us from wanting to learn more." He’s fucking with my head so badly, I’m having trouble seeing straight or figuring out what I should do. If I turn in the files, I’ll clear my name. On the other hand, according to Mason, if I turn the files in, I’ll also help the government be destructive. Is that the world we’re living in? How the hell am I supposed to know whether or not to believe what Mason is saying?

"The two of us did not cause damage. You did," I tell him. "I think you made it clear; I was nothing more than your apprentice sidekick, and you know what? I know you need the files so you can turn them in to the feds by the end of your sentence. I know if you don’t turn them in, you’ll be in here for life. Well … enjoy the scenery because you will never see the files you sacrificed my freedom for." I smile and offer him a simple wave. "Goodbye, Mason."

"Harley—"

"No, while you sit in here for the rest of your sentence, why don’t you think about Victor Frankenstein and what he did for a living," I tell him. "I’m sure the time will go by quickly." I place my hand against the window just as he did a minute ago, and stand up from my seat, offering him a smile against the pain raging along my face.

I check out of the prison without trouble, thankfully, and head toward Chuck's SUV that hasn't moved from the spot he dropped me off in. I hear the doors unlock as I come within reach, and I open the door to slide in. "Thanks for waiting," I tell him.

"No problem, Isabelle." What the hell? I glance over, finding Axel in the driver's seat now. Should have seen this one coming too.

"Give me a break," I groan. "My name is Harley, and I'm starting to feel like I'm being watched by a tiny camera. I'd even go as far as assuming you're watching me shower, dress, and all the other fun stuff that comes along with me, huh?"

"No," he says simply, without taking his eyes off the road in front of him.

"You were probably watching me before I applied for your stupid job too, right?"

He doesn't answer this time, so I answer the question myself, judging by the look on his face. He's smirking—he's proud and smirking. "You are the one I need, Harley."

"You're a sick bastard. Did you get me evicted too?"

"No, it seemed like you had that one under control on your own," he says. "In any case, why the hell were you in that prison by yourself?"

"It's none of your business."

He exhales loudly with frustration and clears his throat. "Great, well, I don't want you in there alone again." He turns the key in the ignition and peels out of the lot.

"You don't get to tell me what to do. You're not family, you're not a friend, you're not a boyfriend, and you may or may not still be my boss. All-in-all, I think that means you don't get to tell me what to do," I tell him.

Driving faster than necessary down this empty road, Axel skids off toward the edge of a building and throws the gear in park. His seatbelt flings against the door, causing a metal thud. He twists toward me and grabs my arm, yanking me to face him. "I'm not getting into detail right now, but I've known you for a lot longer than you realize. Now, you can do your best to convince the world that you’re some chick named Harley, but I know who you really are, Isabelle Hammel."

"You're wrong. Stop saying all of that. I'm not her," I seethe with anger. "What are you? Some kind of sick stalker?"

"I don’t know. Do you have a reason to be stalked?"

"You're pissing me off," I tell him.

"Good." Axel grabs my chin with a firm grip, causing pain against the growing bruises. "When you watch someone take part in a passion that few understand, and that person looks at danger with intrigue rather than fear, it creates an unbreakable bond, whether acknowledged or not."

"That makes no sense," I say through my clenched jaw.

His hand tightens a little more, and his face moves in toward mine. What is he doing? His eyes are open wide, burning me with his stare. "This doesn't have to make sense." He drives his lips against mine and inhales thickly, leaving me with little air. Warmth fills my cheeks, my heart stumbles to beat steadily, and my stomach twists into knots as I consider pulling away, but the touch is senselessly magnetizing. Our mouths are connected with what feels to be equal compulsion, until his hand loosens around my chin, and he gently grazes his knuckles down the side of my cheek. At the same moment, the corner of his lips perk into a devilish grin, and I’m not sure I understand his reaction, nor do I know what expression he can read on my face, but it’s most likely shock and confusion because that’s all I feel. As he pulls away, the glimpse of untangled lust swimming through his eyes fades as his bottom lip drops with uncertainty. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

"For what?" I ask.

"Losing the urge to fight."

"Fight?"

"I shouldn't have done that." He slams the SUV back into drive and pulls out onto the street at the same speed he was cruising before we stopped.

We arrive back at the hotel quickly, and Axel steps out of the SUV at the same time I do, then tosses his keys to a valet guy as I reach for the hotel’s door handle. Before I have the door open wide enough to walk through, he whips it open and away from my grip. "Let's go," he says, taking me by the arm. He leads us to the entrance of the hotel, and while I want to tell him to stop because I fucking quit a few hours ago, my lips are still tingling, my chest is still taking a beating from my overcharged heart, and I just became way more excited about whatever it is he wants me to do next—even if that's using me as his next trainee for a lesson of Krav Maga.