Heterochromia.

  The condition of having differently colored eyes is called heterochromia. Often caused by chimerism—when one embryo absorbs its twin and ends up with two sets of DNA—but there are other reasons, too.

  She didn’t know what had caused Warner Vogel’s eyes to mismatch, and she shouldn’t have cared. One was brown, the other a pale, icy blue. If this were the Middle Ages, he’d be burned for witchcraft, but this wasn’t the Middle Ages—and no one was about to torch the heir to VogelCorp anytime soon.

  She, on the other hand, was royally screwed.

  Freya had noticed the condition in photos and video footage before. She’d filed it away neatly, efficiently, like everything else. He could’ve had the artificial one match the real one. He didn’t.

  And she couldn’t lie, she’d been tempted to antagonize him since the moment he walked in. She didn’t think he’d be dumb enough to do that, but she did hope. And the moment the door opened, she knew this would be her ticket out of here. He wasn’t thinking rationally, and when people don’t think rationally, they act like idiots, even people like Warner Vogel. He was at the mercy of his desires, his impulses, she already knew that much, and that meant she had a head start.

  Freya regarded normals the same way her unit brothers and sisters did—with cool disdain bordering on contempt. After nearly a decade of working with them, their emotional reactions were boring. Predictable. She couldn’t respect anyone who lived at the mercy of those animal instincts.

  According to his file, Warner Vogel possessed above-average intelligence. She’d believe it when she saw it, and so far, all she saw was a typical nepo baby with a god complex. His degrees looked impressive. His test scores, more so. But Freya knew better. A Vogel didn’t need to earn anything. He could buy it outright. Who the hell would dare flunk the heir to VogelCorp?

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  And the moment he entered a room with a live berserker—never mind the restraints—he proved her right.

  As he stepped closer, her senses flared. She was the one in chains, but his heart rate spiked. His cortisol surged. Just like every other poor sucker she’d interrogated.

  A promising start.

  She just had to make the most of it.

  Her mind, normally a calm and steady stream, was jumping all over the place. The light stung her eyes. The shackles bit into skin and bone. It wasn’t as bad as the training back home—not physically—but she’d never seen it from this angle. That had to be it. Back home, she always knew it wasn’t real.

  But this was different.

  They’d done something to her.

  Not just drugged her. Not just restrained her. Violated her.

  She felt the rage hit. Hot, sudden, uncontrollable.

  That was the most terrifying part of all.

  What the fuck did they do to me?

  She’d keep it together. She had to. That was what she was built for. That was what she was for.

  She hadn’t reacted when they tried talking to her. She’d kept quiet, calculating.

  Then he walked in.

  Warner Vogel. With his mismatched eyes. The first face she saw since waking up.

  It had to be a good sign.

  Or a very, very bad one.

  She chose to believe the former.

  She’d get out. One way or another.

  And if not, well—she’d die for her country. Just like she was made to.

  That thought had always felt solid. Unshakable.

  Now it felt just a little out of reach.

  Then he told her: the failsafe was gone.

  And that was it. That was the truth. She would die for her country—whether by their hand or his.

  She couldn’t believe it. Refused to. Her mind revolted. Her mind—her fast, efficient, brilliant mind—kicked and clawed at the truth.

  And then the grief hit.

  It wasn’t new.

  It just felt new.

  She was no longer herself. She was no longer Freya.

  They’d destroyed her.

  Torture would have been more merciful.

  Immediately, pathetic thoughts scrambled for purchase. Maybe it could still be fixed. Maybe if she got out, Victoria would put her back together. Maybe Warner was lying. Maybe her people wouldn’t kill her—they’d reward her.

  She swatted the thoughts away. Weak. Useless.

  Only one thing mattered now: escape. At any cost.

  As soon as she got out of this fucking brace—

  Warner Vogel would pay.

  Fuck this guy. And his heterochromia.