Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 22: Lab Rats

Justin's POV

I don't know how long we stayed like that, tangled in the aftermath, her body limp against mine, the car still filled with the heat of what just happened.

June had passed out in the backseat, her breathing slow and even, completely wrecked. I took my time redressing, making myself look at least somewhat presentable, before stepping out of the car and slipping into the driver's seat.

As I started the engine, my eyes instinctively flickered to the rearview mirror.

She was curled up on the seat, her legs tucked beneath her, her dress barely covering her thighs. Her lips were still swollen from my kisses, her hair a mess, and there was something satisfying about knowing I was the one who did that to her.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my jaw clenching.

She had no fucking clue.

She still thought this was all part of the act—the fake boyfriend bullshit. She thought she could use me to make Bart jealous, to rewrite whatever pathetic love story she had with that asshole.

But this?

This wasn't fake. Not for me.

And soon, she'd realize that, too.

I drove in silence, the soft sound of her breathing filling the car, my mind racing. By the time I pulled up to my place, the weight of what had just happened settled deep in my chest.

I got out, walked to the back, and carefully opened the door. She stirred slightly but didn't wake.

I could leave her here.

Or I could carry her inside.

I didn't hesitate.

Scooping her up in my arms, I kicked the car door shut and carried her toward my apartment. Her body instinctively curled against me, her fingers gripping the fabric of my hoodie, and I smirked. Even in sleep, she clung to me.

I wasn't letting her go.

Not now. Not ever.

The apartment was quiet when I stepped inside, the only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and June's steady breathing against my chest. I kicked the door shut behind me, carrying her straight to my bedroom.

She barely stirred, her head resting against my shoulder, her body fitting so perfectly in my arms it was like she belonged there.

I set her down on the bed, and for a moment, I just stood there, watching her.

Her dress had ridden up again, exposing those smooth, tempting thighs. The faintest marks of my fingers were still on her skin, proof that she was mine tonight.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling sharply.

Fuck.

I should step away. I should let her sleep. But the possessiveness still burned hot in my veins. She wasn't just some random girl from the club. She was June.

The girl who forgot me.

The girl who left me behind.

The girl who had no idea she was playing with fire.

I reached down, carefully pulling the blanket over her, watching as she curled deeper into it. I wasn't some fucking saint, but I wasn't going to take advantage of her like this. Not when she was drunk.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, I'd remind her exactly who she belonged to.

I sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, my voice low and dark.

"You have no idea what you just started, princess."

And with that, I leaned back against the headboard, closing my eyes, knowing damn well that sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.

The horrors in my head always waiting for me to shut my eyes closed.

The memories came in fragments, sharp and vivid, as if I was still there—trapped in that sterile, white nightmare.

The sound of whimpering children.

The cold sting of metal restraints.

The sharp burn of injections that left fire in my veins.

The nauseating scent of antiseptic mixed with the coppery tang of blood.

But tonight, the usual nightmares didn't come. No, my demons weren't whispering about the pain, the torture, or the monsters that had haunted me for years. Instead, they showed me her.

The last time I saw her.

She was six. I was nine.

How did I know? Because every single detail about us—our age, our blood type, even our assigned drug dosages—was printed on the cold, metal badges we had to wear around our necks. No badge? No food. No privileges.

We weren't children. We weren't even people.

We were experiments.

Lab rats.

Numbers instead of names.

June was Number 12.

I was Number 9.

That night was supposed to be our escape. I had found a way out—a vent in the kitchen. It was risky, but I didn't care. We couldn't stay there any longer.

The only way to get kitchen duty—the only unsupervised task in that hellhole—was to misbehave. The kitchen was reserved for the bad kids, the troublemakers, the ones who needed to be punished before they were starved.

I was already on their list. I was always on their list. Rebellious. Violent. Uncontrollable.

But June...

June was too good. Too quiet. She never stepped out of line. She believed that if she behaved, if she followed the rules, maybe—just maybe—the punishments wouldn't be so bad.

I had to convince her.

I told her to take off her badge. I told her to shove another kid. I told her to be bad.

She was hesitant. She hated being bad. But I had no choice—I needed her to do this. We had to get out, and the only way was through that vent.

I knew what would happen if she got caught. The same thing that always happened.

First, the whip. Harsh lashes from a leather horse whip, striking over and over again until skin broke and bled.

Then, the starvation. No food. No water.

And worst of all—the guards and their sexual tendencies on us. 

The male lab techs.

They always had their eyes on Number 12.

She was small. Beautiful. Vulnerable.

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They would find any excuse to punish her, to take her away under the guise of "discipline." They had done it before.

I had experienced it too.

That's why I couldn't wait.

She had to trust me.

And she did.

She shoved a boy. She took off her badge. And she was punished.

By the time she was thrown into kitchen duty with me, her wrists were red from being restrained too tight, and her big, teary eyes met mine like she wanted to ask, Did I do good?

I didn't answer. I just grabbed her hand and started working.

We scrubbed bloody utensils, cleaned the experiment tables, and waited for the moment when the guard wasn't looking. When he would step out to chat.

When the time came, I shoved open the vent, lifted her up, and pushed her inside.