Chapter 3 Jace #2
He started being silent during our visits, just clinging to my sleeve, afraid and waiting for the moment he knew was coming, when I would be made to leave.
A few days in, Patel had pulled me aside and informed me that Elior had begun wetting the bed.
Even with that—a crystal clear fucking sign that they should pull back from their poking and prodding—the Bureau began sending in agents to “interview” him.
They asked him about the Covenant. About Malachi.
About routines, punishments, and hierarchy.
They asked about money and disappearances.
They asked him questions about things he didn’t even understand.
Questions about potential burial sites, if he’d ever seen his father or the Inner Circle doing anything suspicious.
Questions that made his head spin and his stomach turn.
Questions that made him question himself, his reality, and his role in it all.
And then—inevitably—they asked about me.
“How did you meet Jace?”
“What did he tell you about himself?”
“Did he ever ask you to keep secrets?”
“Did he make you feel special?”
“Did he isolate you from others?”
“Did he do anything to you against your will?”
I knew exactly what they were fishing for—and I knew exactly how dangerous Elior’s answers could be. Not because he’d accuse me. God, no. But because he loved me. Because he’d answer honestly, without understanding how his honesty could be twisted.
“He made me feel safe” could become dependency.
“He said he’d take care of me” could become coercion.
And Lord only knew what they’d make of our intimacy, although I was hedging my bets on Elior being too embarrassed and too modest to ever utter a word about what we’d done. If I were wrong, well, simply put—I’d be fucked.
His words had the power to either save me or condemn me.
I hated that they’d put him in that position.
I hated that Patel was the one sitting there afterward, helping him try to piece himself back together while I paced the hallway like a caged animal.
And I hated—most of all—that I couldn’t stop it.
When my own battery of assessments and screenings began, I welcomed them, eager to urge the process on and do some damage control.
I gave them concern without obsession, attachment without possession.
I let them think I was shaken.
I let them think I was guilty of nothing more than caring too much.
Inside, I was confident about my performance, but not cocky—never cocky.
I’d been performing for my entire career, so I was used to it, but I stayed cautious, never letting my guard down.
I needed to be patient, say all the right things, keep my tone even, and make my answers clean but not too clean to be suspicious.
They were looking for a monster.
I gave them a man who loved a victim and respected the rules. I was ashamed that I couldn’t keep my personal feelings separate from my work. I was worried about the potential consequences to Elior’s mental state. I was adamant that I’d kept the relationship strictly non-sexual.
I was whatever they wanted me to be.
And all the while, Elior waited.
Drugged. Questioned. Stripped of his place in the world piece by piece. Probably thinking that everything was all his fault.
That was the part that kept me awake at night—the thought of Elior lying there, alone, believing that loving me was another sin he’d need to atone for.
They could debate my access all they wanted.
In the end, they’d realize the truth.
Taking me away from him wouldn’t make him better, only worse.
The days began to blur together after a while.
Meetings. Hallways. Heated debates behind closed doors I wasn’t allowed into. Every hour stretched thin with waiting, with rehearsing answers in my head, with imagining worst-case scenarios, and then forcing myself to work through them.
And when they finally called me in, it wasn’t to slap cuffs around my wrists and haul me off to the nearest detention center. No.
They wanted my cooperation.
I was seated at the end of a long table, filled with far too many people from Behavioral, Internal Affairs, and legal. Faces carefully neutral, voices calm in the way people get when they’re trying very hard not to provoke something volatile.
They talked about trauma bonds and transference, about the dangers of rapid attachment following prolonged abuse. They talked about power imbalances and dependency, about how survivors sometimes confuse safety and ownership.
They asked if I could step back.
“Just temporarily. Just until this is all figured out.”
“That depends on what you mean by step back,” I’d answered. “If you mean removing me entirely, I think that would be clinically irresponsible. If you mean restructuring contact in a way that supports his autonomy while maintaining a consistent support figure, I’m open to that.”
They seemed to like that answer. They liked me being reasonable.
Within a few hours, I had an answer.
Supervised contact could continue, with a slight extension of visit time.
No physical intimacy beyond what could be justified as grounding.
No exclusive presence during interviews.
A transition plan for eventual discharge that involved a third party—social services, placement options, and contingencies.
I agreed, only because agreeing kept me in the room.
When I finally went back to Elior’s floor afterwards, it was past midnight. The lights were dimmed, the hall quiet except for the low murmur of machines and distant footsteps.
Patel was still there.
Of course he was.
The fucker.
He looked up when he saw me, something unreadable crossing his face. “They tell you yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I’m still allowed to see him.”
Patel exhaled slowly. “Any discharge plan?”
“Tentative. Nothing concrete yet, but it was at least talked about like something in the foreseeable future.”
He stood from the chair he was seated in, stretching stiffly while glaring at me. “I can’t believe they’re buying your bullshit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
“How’s he been today?”
Patel studied me for a moment, then sighed, “Not well.”
“Define ‘not well’,” I said, keeping my voice level even as my hands curled at my sides.
Patel glanced back toward Elior’s room, lowering his voice despite the empty hallway. “He dissociated during the afternoon interview. Fully checked out. Wouldn’t respond to his name for almost ten minutes.”
Fuck. “They’re pushing him too far.”
“Yeah,” he said sharply. “Because that’s what they do.” Then, after a beat, more reluctantly, “I pulled the plug on the session. Documented it as medically contraindicated.”
I looked at him then—really looked. The disdain was still there, simmering just under the surface, but it was edged with something else—worry, fatigue.
“Is he sedated right now?”
“Yeah, but a lighter dose,” Patel replied. “The doctors have been getting concerned, rightfully, so that’s eased up a bit. Unfortunately, they can’t just not give him anything. Can’t have him panicking twenty-four hours a day.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. “You know this isn’t helping him.”
Patel’s mouth twisted. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not posturing,” I said quietly. “I’m stating a fucking fact. This approach is destabilizing him. All they’re managing to do is make him worse.”
“I know,” he snapped back, then stopped short, clearly annoyed with himself. He folded his arms, jaw set. “But that still doesn’t mean you are the solution.”
“No,” I said. “But I am part of his stability. Whether you like it or not, he needs me.”
Silence stretched between us.
“He talks about you to me.” Patel looked back to the window, the stress more than clear on his face.
“About?”
“He’s conflicted. On the one hand, he thinks you used him and then betrayed him. On the other, he… he says he can’t stop loving you. He’s confused,” Patel said, “and that’s tearing him apart.”
My chest ached. “I don’t know how to convince him that I didn’t use him.”
“But you did, Jace.”
I shook my head. “It’s pointless to explain it to you.”
Patel was silent for a moment, then said, “He keeps apologizing. For needing things. For crying. For… existing…” His lips pressed into a thin line. “If I find out that you’re the reason he’s doing that…”
“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate you being protective of him, but I would never make him feel the need to apologize for anything. I want to give him everything, Patel. I want to give him the world. So, no. That’s not on me.
That’s all on his shitty excuse of a sperm donor.
Fucking piece of shit deserves everything that’s coming for him. ”
Patel scoffed lightly. “At least we agree on that.”