17. Ellie #2
"You've had quite an eventful few weeks, haven't you?
" she says conversationally. "Taking on Killian Blackthorn's case.
Harboring him in your home." Her eyes narrow slightly, studying my reaction.
"Developing what appears to be a rather...
unprofessional attachment to your patient.
Julian has invested far too much in Killian to see him compromised by a misplaced savior complex.
" She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Crossing such boundaries is risky behavior for a woman with your potential. "
I lower the bottle, meeting her gaze directly. They must be referring to overhearing things on the bugs planted in my home. "And kidnapping is ethical?"
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Perspective is everything, Dr. Hart. I prefer to think of it as an essential intervention. You've strayed rather dramatically from your path, and my husband believes you might benefit from a change in environment, to realign your values."
"Your husband," I say carefully, "has been trying to kill me for weeks."
Grace laughs, the sound startlingly genuine.
"Oh no, my dear. If Julian had wanted you dead, you wouldn't be having this conversation now.
The men sent to your home were never instructed to kill you, only to retrieve you.
" She inches closer, studying my face. "You've become something of an obsession for him, you know.
The woman who turned his most valuable asset against him. "
"Killian made his own choices," I say.
“Did he?” Her eyebrow arches perfectly. “Or did you make them for him, with your compassion and your professional insights? You saw his damage and couldn’t resist trying to heal it.
” She steps closer, her voice dropping to something almost gentle.
“It’s admirable. Really. But rather dangerous when applied to a man like Killian Blackthorn. ”
The question lands exactly where she intended it to.
Did I manipulate him? Did I see a broken, traumatized man and decide to fix him? Not for his sake, but for mine? To prove I was good enough, smart enough, capable enough to heal someone that damaged? To fill the hole my father’s death carved out of my chest?
The thoughts spiral. Every session. Every conversation. Every time I touched him, was I just playing therapist with a live subject? Was any of it real, or was I just as calculating as Grace, just with better intentions?
No. Fuck no.
I recognize the spiral for what it is. Expert-level psychological warfare, designed to make me doubt everything. Grace is good. But I’m better at understanding minds, including my own.
“Nice try,” I say. "What does your husband want from me?"
“Currently? Your presence at dinner.” She glances at her watch. A delicate piece that probably costs more than my car. “Julian has been looking forward to meeting you for years. Ever since Killian first took an interest in you.”
Years?
My brain stutters over the word, trying to make it make sense through the fog of whatever drug is still swimming in my system.
Killian walked into my office five weeks ago. A court-mandated patient for the rehabilitation program. Standard intake paperwork, criminal history check, the usual protocol for high-risk offenders.
But Grace is saying years.
“I don’t understand,” I say, and I hate how confused I sound. Weak and still disoriented. “Killian was assigned to me through the court system a couple of months ago.”
Grace’s smile widens, like I’ve revealed something useful.
“Was he? How fortunate for him that the random assignment process worked out so perfectly.” She turns toward the door, clearly enjoying my confusion.
“We have so much to discuss at dinner, Dr. Hart. I think you’ll find it quite... illuminating.”
"Where is Killian?" I demand again, my voice sharper. "What have you done with him?"
Grace pauses at the door. "That depends entirely on whether he survived the explosion.
My husband's men were instructed to capture, not kill, but Killian has always been...
unpredictable in combat situations. His survival instincts tend to override his reason.
" She turns back to me, her expression softening with fake sympathy.
"If it's any comfort, I've known Killian for a very long time. He's remarkably difficult to kill."
Known. Past tense.
Or was it know? Present tense?
The ambiguity sits in my chest like a stone. She’s doing it on purpose, keeping me off-balance between hope and grief. Textbook manipulation. Perfectly executed.
Fuck her for being so good at it.
“Is he alive?” I demand, hating how desperate I sound.
Grace’s smile doesn’t change at all.
“I suppose you’ll find out, eventually. One way or another."
"And the others?" I ask, unable to hide my frustration, thinking of Gabriel, Jackson, and Kai.
"Collateral damage," she says dismissively. "Their status is irrelevant to our purpose."
The callous disregard in her voice sparks anger that momentarily overpowers my fear. "If you or your husband has hurt them…”
"You'll do what, exactly?" Grace interrupts, her tone gently mocking. "Your position here is not one of leverage, Dr. Hart. The sooner you understand that, the more... comfortable your stay will be."
Her eyes linger on me for another beat, then she nods like she’s made a decision.
"I'll return shortly with appropriate clothing for dinner. Julian is particular about appearances, and while I'm sure he'd find your current state intriguingly disheveled, it would be better for everyone if you made a more favorable impression."
I search for any angle, any question that might give me useful information.
"And if I refuse to attend this dinner?"
Grace's smile remains fixed, but the temperature in her eyes drops.
"Julian would be very disappointed. And his disappointment tends to have unpleasant consequences.
" She gestures around the cell. "This accommodation represents our hospitality at its most basic level.
It can become significantly less hospitable. "
The words land exactly as intended. They can make this worse. Much worse.
“Besides,” she continues, voice lightening as if discussing the weather, “you might learn something useful about Killian’s fate.
My husband is quite impressed with your professional accomplishments.
He’s been following your career since your doctoral dissertation.
” She pauses, and I can feel her watching me, waiting for something.
“Trauma response patterns in victims of violent crime.”
My hands tighten around the empty water bottle. She knows about my dissertation. My specific area of research. That means years of surveillance, since grad school, maybe earlier.
“Quite ironic,” Grace continues, her voice becoming almost mocking, “given your father’s murder.”
The water bottle crumples in my grip before I realize I’m squeezing it. Plastic crackling loud enough to spike the headache already pulsing behind my eyes from whatever they drugged me with.
My father.
She knows about my father. Not just that he existed, not just that he died. She knows about his work. His research. The questions that got him killed.
How long have they been watching me? How much of my life had these people cataloged, studied, and analyzed?
Was I being observed when I defended my dissertation on the same subject that killed him?
When I opened my practice? When I was nineteen and stupid with grief, trying to make sense of his death?
Every private moment suddenly feels exposed. Violated.