My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 06

My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 06

Tears splattered onto the pages. The ink bled and blurred beneath them.

Graham looked up at me. Then he hauled back and slapped himself across the face.

The crack of it echoed through the hospital room-sharp and ugly.

He did it again. And again. Until one side of his face swelled up red and raw.

I finally spoke. Not because of a command. Because the noise was too loud.

“Please refrain from self-injurious behavior. Continued actions will trigger the accompanying

self-harm protocol.”

He stopped instantly. His bloodshot eyes fixed on me like a child who’d been caught doing

something unforgivable.

“Wren. I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

“I ignored you for a machine. I tried to force you into becoming something you were never

supposed to be. I sent you into hell for three years.”

“Yell at me. Hit me. Punish me however you want. Just-please. Please don’t stay like this.”

I stared at his swollen face.

Through the white noise in my head, fragments surfaced. Images. Memories.

Back when we first fell in love. When he used to stand between me and anything that

threatened to hurt me.

When he remembered every little thing I liked. When he’d drop everything to hold me the

second I was upset.

But the images flickered. Reflections in water. A ripple passed through them and they shattered into nothing.

My face stayed blank.

“Please define ‘wrong.”

“Please define ‘love.”

The words fell and the room swallowed them whole.

Graham’s tears froze on his cheeks. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

It took him a long time to find his voice again. When he did, it was scraped raw.

“You. You’re the one I love, Wren. It’s always been you.”

“Command unclear. Please provide a standardized definition.”

His tears broke loose again. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around me. He held on so tight it felt like he was trying to press me back into his bones.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. No command had been issued.

“There is no definition! There’s no standardized anything!”

He was sobbing now.

“Wren, I don’t want a perfect wife. I don’t want some flawless machine. I just want you. The you who cried and laughed and fought with me.

The you who got mad and threw things and crawled into my lap five minutes later. Please.

Come back to me. Please.”

“Is that a command?” I asked.

His whole body went rigid.

His arms loosened. He pulled back to look at my face,completely still, completely empty,and

it hit him like a blade between the ribs.

The color drained from his skin. He sank back into the chair.

The day they discharged me, the sun was bright and warm.

Graham brought me a new dress. Same style I used to love before I turned twenty-five. White.

Long. Little daisies embroidered along the hem.

He helped me into it with trembling hands. His fingers shook every time they brushed my

skin.

When he was done, he stepped back. His eyes were full of something desperate and hopeful.

“Wren? Do you like it?”

I didn’t answer. No command.

The light in his eyes dimmed. But he forced a smile anyway. He reached down and took my

hand.

My fingers hung limp in his grip. I didn’t squeeze back. I didn’t pull away.

I moved like a marionette with pre-programmed joints and let him lead me out of the

hospital.

The house was different.

Everything that belonged to Ember was gone. Every trace of her, erased. The whole place had

been reset to the way it was three years ago.

The book I never finished sat on the bay window. My old favorites filled the closet. The fridge

was stocked with snacks I used to love.

Even our wedding portrait had been pulled out of storage and hung back on the wall.

The glass was polished.

Graham led me into the bedroom. His voice was so careful, so gentle, like he was afraid a

wrong syllable might crack me open.

“See, Wren? Everything’s back the way it was. This is your home. It’s always been your home.”

I looked around. My eyes swept over the familiar things. Nothing stirred.

At the Institute, every preference, every emotion, every sharp edge I used to have-they’d

labeled it all residual sentimentality. And they’d excised it from me.

Punishment by punishment. Until there was nothing left.

The white dress I used to love. The daisies. The snacks. The man.

I’d thrown all of it away myself. One piece at a time.

The dinner table was covered in dishes. Every single one was something I used to crave before twenty-five.

Sweet and sour chicken. Honey garlic wings. Beef stew. No cilantro. No celery. No onions. No

mangoes.

Graham dropped a piece of chicken into my bowl. His eyes were full of that same desperate

hope.

“Wren, try it. I had your aunt teach me. This used to be your favorite.”

I didn’t pick up my chopsticks.

No command to eat.

Graham stared at my untouched bowl. His eyes went red. He sucked in a shaky breath and

forced the words out, his voice splintering at the edges.

“Eat. Unit 007.”