Chapter 37 Elliot
ELLIOT
Idon’t remember much of the ride back to Julian’s penthouse. Everything blurs—the SUV’s motion, Julian’s arms around me, his whispered reassurances. When we arrive, he carries me inside like I might shatter.
“I need to shower,” I mumble, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. The scent of that basement clings to my skin—mildew, fear, and my mother’s perfume. Just the thought of smelling her perfume makes me nearly retch.
“I’ve got you,” Julian says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
In the bathroom, he undresses me with careful hands, his eyes darkening at each bruise and rope burn revealed. I can’t look at myself in the mirror.
“Arms up,” he instructs softly, and I comply without thought.
The water is perfectly warm against my battered body. Julian steps in behind me, fully clothed at first until the water soaks his shirt and he sheds it. He washes my hair with careful fingers, massaging my scalp.
“She wanted to cut into my brain,” I whisper as soap trails down my back. “Her own son.”
Julian’s hands pause momentarily. “She can never hurt you again,” he says, his voice tight as he struggles to control his rage. Then his touch returns, impossibly gentle as he rinses away the shampoo.
After the shower, Julian wraps me in the softest towel I’ve ever felt and guides me to his bed. He dresses my wounds with supplies from a first aid kit—antiseptic on my raw wrists, ointment on the cuts from my mother’s nails.
“You need to eat something,” he says, and disappears briefly.
He returns with warm soup and sits beside me, holding the spoon when my hands shake too much to manage it. I should feel humiliated by this helplessness, but there’s only relief in surrendering to his care.
I finish the last spoonful of soup, feeling warmth spread through my hollow chest for the first time since I woke up in that basement.
Julian sets the bowl aside on the nightstand, his movements measured and precise.
There’s a new carefulness to him that I’ve never seen before—like I’m something precious that might break.
“Come here,” he murmurs, and before I can move, he’s gently pulling me onto his lap, cradling me against his chest.
The tears come without warning. After hours of fighting not to break in front of my mother, of holding onto some shred of dignity while tied to that chair, the softness of Julian’s embrace undoes me completely. I sob into his neck, my body shaking with the force of it.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against my hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
His hands move in soothing circles on my back, and I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with grief and pain.
“I never want to be without you,” I confess between ragged breaths. “You’re making me addicted to this feeling. To being seen. To being wanted despite everything.”
Julian pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, his thumb brushing away tears from my cheek. “Good,” he says.
His lips find mine in the gentlest kiss we’ve ever shared. There’s no demand in it, no hunger or possession—just tenderness that makes my chest ache in an entirely new way. When we part, he presses his forehead to mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet space between us.
We stay like that for what feels like hours, trading soft kisses and whispered reassurances. Julian’s hands never stop their gentle caress along my back, my arms, through my hair. For the first time in a long time, I feel completely safe.
I wake to sunlight streaming through Julian’s bedroom windows, my body aching in places I didn’t know could hurt. For a moment, panic seizes me—am I still tied to that chair? But the silk sheets against my skin and Julian’s warm body beside me ground me in reality.
“Hey,” Julian whispers, his fingers gently brushing hair from my forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I croak, my throat still raw.
Julian helps me sit up against the headboard and hands me a glass of water. “You need to stay hydrated.”
I drink greedily, water spilling down my chin. “My mother—”
“She’s at Ravenwood Psychiatric,” Julian says, his voice careful, measured. “Elliot, there’s something you should see. Only if you’re ready.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I am.
Julian retrieves his tablet and sits beside me on the bed, his arm a protective barrier between me and whatever horrors await on the screen. “I recorded everything when we came in. I thought you might need to see... to understand.”
The video plays, and I watch myself—bound, bloodied, exhausted—while my mother paces like a caged animal, screaming about demons possessing me. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, nothing like the controlled, cold woman who raised me.
“She’s been like this for years,” I whisper. “Not this bad, but... There were moments when I was growing up. Times when she’d go from perfectly calm to... something else.”
Julian pauses the video on an image of my mother’s contorted face. “The psychiatrist believes she’s been suffering from untreated paranoid schizophrenia, possibly for decades. Her religious beliefs became the framework for her delusions.”
A strange sense of relief washes over me, even as my stomach churns at the sight. “So it wasn’t just that she hated who I am. It wasn’t just bigotry or disappointment.” I take a shaky breath. “There was something actually broken in her mind.”
“Yes,” Julian says simply, setting the tablet aside and taking my hand.
“Is it terrible that knowing that makes me feel... lighter somehow?” I ask, tears welling in my eyes. “Like maybe it wasn’t my fault after all?”
Julian pulls me against his chest, and I can feel his heart beating steadily and strongly. “It was never your fault, Elliot. Never.”
“It doesn’t make it hurt less,” I say, wiping tears from my face, “but it explains a lot. The mood swings, the obsessive religious fixations, the way she’d sometimes stare at nothing for hours.
” I pause, a sudden realization hitting me.
“And maybe also why my dad left us. He never said why—just packed his bags when I was eight and never looked back.”
Julian’s hand strokes my back in slow circles. “Have you spoken to him since?”
“No. She always said he abandoned us, that he was weak. I believed her.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Another lie in a lifetime of them.”
Julian shifts slightly, reaching for a folder on the nightstand. “There’s something else you should know. Dr. Larson—the psychiatrist I called—has completed a comprehensive evaluation of your mother. She’s declared her a danger to herself and others, recommending immediate psychiatric commitment.”
I take the folder with trembling hands, skimming the clinical language that reduces my mother’s madness to symptoms and diagnoses.
“The judge agreed,” Julian continues. “After serving her criminal sentence for arson and kidnapping, she’ll be committed to Ravenwood Psychiatric Hospital for an indefinite period.”
“Indefinite?” I look up, uncertain how to feel about this.
Julian’s expression remains steady, resolute. “I’ve made sure it’s a facility where she’ll receive actual treatment. The best doctors and appropriate medication. But she won’t be released without extensive evaluation and clear evidence that she’s no longer a threat.”
“This isn’t just about what she did to me, is it?” I ask quietly.
“No,” Julian says, his voice firm. “It’s not just revenge, Elliot. It’s removing a genuine threat—to you, to others, even to herself. The person who burned down your gallery and kidnapped you isn’t suddenly going to get better with a few therapy sessions. She needs long-term professional help.”
I nod, letting his words sink in. My mother will be locked away, perhaps for the rest of her life.
Julian pulls me closer, his arms steady and secure around me. Something in his expression shifts, softens.
“I love you, Elliot,” he says, his voice clear and certain. Not desperate like when we were in the SUV fleeing the church—just honest. Simple.
My heart swells. To hear those words from him in this quiet moment feels different—feels real in a way nothing else has before.
“I love you too,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him. His lips are gentle against mine, no urgency, just connection.
When we break apart, Julian smiles. “So what happens next?”
We spend hours talking about the future—our future. The gallery will reopen within three months, with expanded space for emerging artists. Julian suggests a dedicated area for LGBTQ+ artists, and I love the idea immediately.
“I’ll need to travel occasionally,” Julian says, tracing patterns on my arm. “But I’ve been thinking about scaling back, delegating more. Making space for what matters.”
“And what matters?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
“This. Us.” His fingers trail lower, across my stomach. “Building something together.”
The atmosphere shifts subtly, his touch changing from comforting to something more deliberate. I feel my body responding, amazed that after everything, I still want him this intensely.
“I’ve been thinking,” Julian murmurs against my neck, “about trying something we haven’t done yet.”
“What’s that?” My breath catches as his hand moves lower.
“DP.”
I furrow my brow, picturing a third person joining us. “You want... another man involved?”
Julian shakes his head, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “No. I have a strap-on dildo. I want to fuck you with both my cock and the toy. At the same time.”
I raise an eyebrow, both shocked and intrigued by the suggestion.
My eyes widen as I let Julien’s words really sink in. “You’re joking, right? I can’t take both. Your cock is already stretching me to my limit, and now you want to add more?”
Julian’s eyes darken with desire. “Trust me, Elliot. Your body is capable of more pleasure than you realize.” His fingertips trace the curve of my hip. “I’ll prepare you properly. Make sure you’re relaxed, open.”