His To Keep

Seventeen Barely There.

Lily Malen

The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me away from him, and I all but stumbled to the bed. My body felt heavy, strange—every limb loose and trembling as if it no longer belonged to me. I collapsed onto the mattress, chest heaving, skin still humming with the memory of what had just happened.

I couldn’t make sense of it. I had cried, begged, whispered apologies into the darkness, pleading that I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

The words were tangled with the sound of my own sobs, raw and desperate, but then—then something had shifted.

My body had shifted. I hadn’t known what was happening at first, only that the ache inside me had turned into something sharp and consuming, something I couldn’t stop even as I tried to hold it back.

And when it broke, it had left me shaking, undone. His name had been on my lips.

Was that what it meant to feel good? Was that what the men at the House had been chasing, over and over, when they used me? My skin burned at the thought, shame and wonder curling together. None of them had ever looked at me like he did. None of them had ever let me come apart like that.

Adrian had been so close, his face hovering above mine, his hands on me, steadying me even when my legs failed.

I could still feel the weight of his grip, the heat of his gaze, the sound of his breath filling the silence.

And yet—when it was over, when I was weak and empty against him, he had recoiled as if I were poison. He had thrown me away.

I saw again the fire in his eyes as he looked down at me crumpled on the floor. It hadn’t been desire anymore—it had been rage. And his voice, low and cutting, had told me to get out.

My throat tightened as the tears began to slip free. I curled into the bed, clutching the blanket as though it might keep me from splintering apart completely. All I had wanted was to be good, to be what he needed, what he wanted. Instead, I had ruined it. I had ruined everything.

And yet, beneath the shame and the ache of rejection, his touch still lingered. That was the cruelest part—I couldn’t push it away.

The tears come before I can stop them, hot and unrelenting, slipping down my cheeks as if they’ve been waiting for hours to fall.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, but it only makes my chest ache more, the sobs catching in my throat.

My body still feels strange, heavy and light all at once, but it’s my heart that hurts the most. I don’t even know why I’m crying, only that I can’t seem to stop.

My gaze drifts toward the door, the only way out of this room. Adrian’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and final: don’t come out. I stare at it, waiting, wondering how long it will be before someone tells me I can leave.

°°°°°

Two days have passed, and I haven’t stepped beyond the walls of this room.

Not once. I don’t dare. His voice lingers, sharp and heavy, the way he told me not to come out.

I don’t know what would happen if I disobeyed—if he would drag me back, throw me away, send me to the House as punishment.

The thought alone coils fear so tight inside me that even reaching for the doorknob feels dangerous.

It’s easier to stay where he’s put me. Safer.

And he has given me everything I could need, hasn’t he?

A bathroom, a bed softer than anything I’ve ever known, even a shower that spills warmth over my skin until I almost forget where I came from.

Everything except food. Except water. But I would never ask.

I’ve never been allowed to ask. To need.

My body complains quietly, the ache of thirst and hunger twisting low in my belly, but I silence it with the rhythm of distraction.

There’s a small shelf in the corner, lined with books.

I’ve gone through three already, each one a doorway to another world, places where girls like me aren’t trapped in rooms or told when they’re allowed to step outside.

I let the pages carry me away until my eyes burn, and I tell myself I’m content. I tell myself it’s enough.

But when the words blur and I close the book, the quiet presses in too thick, and his face returns to me.

Adrian. The way he looked at me on the floor, like fire and ice both lived in his eyes.

The way he touched me—so close, so real—that I can still feel it in my skin if I’m still long enough.

He could be kind, I know he could. I saw it flicker in him before he pushed it down, buried it beneath anger like it didn’t belong to him.

That thought haunts me more than the hunger does.

Four more days bled together in silence. My body felt heavier now, every movement slowed, dulled. Hunger sat sharp and hollow in my stomach, the ache stretching thin across my ribs. My lips were cracked from thirst, my throat raw, but I stayed. I stayed because he had told me to.

I used to be good at this—enduring, starving, waiting until my body forgot what it meant to be cared for.

The House had trained me well in that way, locking us away until we were too weak to stand, until we would have begged for scraps.

Back then, I survived it because I had no choice.

But here, things were different. Adrian had let me eat.

Not much, not like other people must, but more than I’d ever been given before.

Enough to trick me into believing my body deserved more than survival.

And now that it was being taken from me again, I felt the sting of it deeper.

By the third day, Logan appeared. His footsteps startled me—the first noise beyond my own shallow breathing in hours. He opened the door without hesitation, his tall frame filling the doorway.

“Why the hell are you holed up in here?” His tone was confused, not cruel.

My hands twisted at the hem of my dress, nerves knotting inside me. “I… I can’t leave.”

His brows pulled tight. “Can’t? Why the hell not?”

My pulse skittered. The words scraped out, barely a whisper. “He told me… not to. He said to stay in my room. To not come out.”

Logan’s confusion sharpened into disbelief. He tilted his head, searching my face like he thought I must be lying. “Adrian said that? Christ, he must’ve been joking. You know you can come out, right?”

The certainty in his voice struck me, but I shook my head too quickly, fear spiking hot in my chest. My voice stumbled, tripping over itself. “N-no. He wasn’t joking. I know he wasn’t.”

“Lily, he’s barely even been home,” Logan pressed, his arms folding over his chest. “He’s buried himself in work. Trust me, he’s not sitting around waiting to see if you’re playing statue in here. You need food. Water. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

I stepped back, the floor cold under my bare feet, my body trembling. My head shook again, violently this time, as though movement alone could shield me. “I… I c-can’t.”

“Lily,” he tried again, softer this time, “you’re gonna—”

“Please.” The word broke from me, desperate, pleading. I lifted a hand, ushering him back toward the door. “Please go. Before he finds out you were in here.”

The look on Logan’s face was unreadable—somewhere between pity and frustration—but he didn’t push further. He exhaled hard through his nose, then backed away, the door clicking shut behind him.

And I was alone again, shaking, my heart hammering at the thought of Adrian finding out.

°°°°°

By the sixth day, my body betrays me. Every movement is a battle.

My knees tremble under me, thin and useless, as if they no longer belong to me.

My head swims, thoughts bleeding into each other until I can’t hold on to a single one.

I used to be good at this. At being denied food, water, anything that made me human.

The House had taught me how to survive long stretches without comfort, without even air that felt clean.

But I’m not the girl I was in those rooms. I’ve grown soft—Adrian made me soft. He let me eat. He let me drink. Not much, not everything, but more than I had ever been given before. Enough to trick my body into believing it could expect such things again. And now—now I am weak without them.

The memories pressed in, sharp and cruel.

What would they think of me if they could see me now?

The others, the girls who had survived beside me in that place.

They would see weakness. They would see failure.

They would not approve of what I’d become — waiting, obeying, too frightened to even step past a door.

I pushed myself up anyway. I had to. My palms slid against the sheets as I forced myself to stand, every joint screaming, my head swimming in a haze so thick it felt like drowning.

The room tilted. My vision broke apart, doubled.

My knees quivered beneath me, thin and useless.

Still, I took one step, then another, clutching for balance, my breath shallow and ragged.

I thought maybe if I reached the door — if I could just touch the handle — it would be enough. A tiny rebellion. A proof to myself that I was not as caged as I felt. But my body disagreed.

The strength drained all at once, a thread snapping.

My knees buckled, folding beneath me, and a small, pitiful sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.

My fingers scraped against the floor as I fell, the impact jarring through me, a hot sting in my bones.

Tears blurred my sight, thick and unbidden.

I was so tired. So unbearably tired. The fight in me had gone quiet, silenced by exhaustion.

My body felt like lead, my chest too heavy to rise, my eyes too heavy to hold open.

The floor was cold beneath my cheek, and I couldn’t bring myself to move again.

My lashes fluttered once, twice, before the dark claimed me, pulling me under, and I let it.

°°°°°

Adrian Rosetti

The city blurred past my windows in streaks of light and shadow, the tires eating up the pavement as I pushed harder on the gas.

I shouldn’t even be driving this fast, not down these winding roads, but I needed the roar of the engine, the grind of the gears, something louder than the mess clawing at my head.

For the last week I’d made sure to bury myself in work.

Up before the sun, at the office before half my men even opened their eyes, drowning in deals, ledgers, numbers, anything to keep me from going home.

And I’d leave after midnight, when the house was quiet, when I didn’t have to hear her voice or see the way she looks at me like I’m something she can’t quite understand.

But it didn’t fucking work.

Every hour, every night, she’s there. Even with contracts in front of me, even with blood on my hands from men who couldn’t keep their promises, I see her.

In my house. In my bed. The way she curled against me like she belonged there.

The sound of her breathing softening as sleep pulled her under.

Christ, I can still feel her against me—soft skin, warm, too delicate for this world, for me. The memory of it won’t leave.

And it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter.

She’s just a girl, just another piece on the board I should be able to move wherever I fucking want.

But the way her hand had brushed mine, the way her body fit so easily into the shape of me—it haunts me.

My fingers remember the way her skin gave under them, the fragile curve of her arm, the faint tremor in her when she was too close.

I’d traced the line of her wrist without meaning to, and it felt like something dangerous, something I wasn’t supposed to have.

I’ve tried to scrub it out of my head by working myself raw, drowning in the chaos.

But she follows me everywhere. When I close my eyes in the office, she’s there.

When I turn a corner in the street, I imagine catching sight of her.

I can’t escape it, can’t escape her, no matter how much I burn through hours, through whiskey, through fucking rage.

And now, tonight, I couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t sit at that desk with her shadow stretching across every page. So I’m here, foot heavy on the gas, jaw clenched, racing home like something’s clawing me apart from the inside.

The driveway stretches out before me, dark and quiet, the king’s path leading straight to the house.

My fingers are tight on the wheel, knuckles white, and I don’t even bother to swing into the garage.

The engine dies with a low rumble, and before I can think, the door flies open.

I step out, slamming it hard enough for the frame to shake.

I need a smoke. Something to burn the tension loose.

I open the front door without even glancing at the men stationed outside, their presence ignored. Normally I’d acknowledge them, maybe throw a hand or a glance, but tonight I don’t give a damn. I step inside—and the air hits me.

It’s… different. Colder. Quieter. Empty.

Mary’s not here. That much I know. Her daughter had given birth, and she’d taken the week off to help out.

I’d barely registered it until now. My head had been too full of numbers, meetings, and her.

The house had been moving around me, alive, but I hadn’t noticed the absence of sound, the lack of warmth.

I walk further in, boots clicking on the polished floors.

My eyes take in the details automatically, like muscle memory, scanning, cataloging.

The flower vases on the tables are filled, yes—but the petals are dead, brown at the edges, curling inward.

They’ve been left to die. The air doesn’t carry the scent of bread or fresh cooking the way it usually does, the house no longer smells alive. My chest tightens.

I realize I really haven’t been home for more than a week. Haven’t noticed what’s been happening in my absence. And now the emptiness presses in, heavier than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs before I even saw him. Logan appeared at the bottom, shoulders squared, brow furrowed, and that familiar edge in his voice slicing through the quiet of the house.

“Oh, now you decide to fucking show up,” he spat, arms crossed over his chest.

I froze, confusion sharpening into irritation. “The fuck are you talking about?” I asked, stepping closer, my voice low, controlled.

His glare didn’t waver. “You’ve been absent all week,” he said, voice rising slightly, “barely even in the house. Do you even know what’s been happening while you’ve been buried in your office?”

I shrugged, letting the motion carry all the dismissal I could muster. “So what? What is your fucking problem”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “So what?” he repeated, incredulous, stepping closer.

“You wanna know what my problem is?” His eyes burned into mine.

“My problem is that Lily has been upstairs, locked away in her fucking room for six days. Six fucking days. Not eating, barely drinking. She’s hardly moved.

And all because you told her she couldn’t leave. ”

I felt the words land like stones in my chest. Something tight and ugly stirred in my stomach, a mixture of irritation and… recognition. I wanted to argue, to snap back, to push him off balance—but the rage in Logan’s eyes, the fire that refused to be ignored, made my tongue stiff.

I took a step closer, lowering my voice into something dangerous, controlled. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Logan,” I said, every word clipped and hard. “Back the fuck off.”

He didn’t. He shoved, the force enough to jolt me back slightly. “No,” he barked, eyes blazing. “I won’t back off.”

Something in his words hit me, slicing sharper than I expected. My voice caught as realization started to creep in. “She… she’s been up there?”

Logan’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, but his anger didn’t fade. “Yes. The whole time. She’s scared of you, Adrian. She told me to get out—said not to let you see me in her room.”

My chest tightened. My hands clenched at my sides. I froze, the blood roaring in my ears. She had been there, the whole time. Locked in. Afraid. And I hadn’t even realized.

I swallowed hard, forcing the words out, but my voice was low, sharp with disbelief. “And she… hasn’t eaten? Hasn’t drank anything?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, eyes never leaving mine. “Barely. She’s barely moved, Adrian. She’s been surviving on scraps, just to do what you said. To obey you.”

The weight of it hit me in waves, colder and sharper than I expected. My mind spun, words catching in my throat. The quiet of the house, the thought of her alone, trembling upstairs—it burned into me, impossible to ignore.

My chest tightened as the memory hit me, unrelenting.

That morning in my room, when she had pressed against the wall, trembling and fragile in a way that had made my blood feel too hot and my thoughts too loud.

She had come undone in front of me, completely, and I had seen it—the small, fragile shifts of her body, the quiet gasps she hadn’t meant me to hear.

Every inch of her had felt impossibly soft, impossibly alive, and for a moment I had hated myself for letting it matter.

And then I had pushed her. Told her to get out. Go to her room. Stay there. My words had been sharp, commanding, final. I had whispered a bitter, low fuck under my breath, the sound sticking in my throat even now.

I glanced at Logan, feeling the weight of his presence, the weight of the truth he’d just thrown at me. My voice came low, careful, and I could feel the edge in it even as I tried to soften it. “I didn’t mean it,” I said. “Not what I said to her.”

Logan’s jaw was tight, his eyes still blazing with anger and disbelief. “Well,” he said, and I could hear the accusation threading through the words, “she clearly thought you fucking meant it.”

I opened my mouth, ready to argue, to tell him he had no idea, to shove back against the judgment in his tone—but before the words could form, a thud echoed down the hallway.

Faint, deliberate, yet impossibly heavy in the quiet house.

Both Logan and I froze, our bodies taut, the sound carving into the edges of my mind.

It repeated, soft but undeniable, a measured beat that seemed to match the frantic pulse in my chest. My stomach twisted, part fear, part frustration, part something else entirely, and for a single, frozen moment, I remembered what I had done, and what I had allowed.

And I knew with absolute certainty that whatever was coming next, it was hers.

“What the fuck was that?” I barked, the words cutting through the hall like a whip. My voice sounded harsh, angry even to my own ears, but it didn’t matter. Something had shattered the silence, and I needed to know what.

Logan spun toward the stairs, his eyes sharp, alert. “It’s coming from her room,” he said quickly, voice low but urgent. Without waiting for anything else, he bolted up the steps, boots pounding against the polished wood.

I froze for a fraction of a second, chest tight, the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Then, just as instinct demanded, I followed.

Two stairs at a time, legs pumping, the air thick and heavy in the hallway.

Behind Logan, every sense was on fire—every shadow, every creak in the house felt amplified, almost unreal.

Logan stopped at her door, hand raised, knuckles rapping sharply against the frame. “Lily? Are you alright? What was that sound?” His voice had that edge of tension that I could hear, even from behind him.

Nothing. Silence. Thick, unbroken, impossibly loud in the quiet room.

I knocked again, harder this time, nails tapping against wood. Still nothing. My patience snapped, frustration mixing with the first tendrils of fear twisting inside me. “Open the fucking door,” I growled, low and dangerous.

Logan’s hand moved carefully to the knob. He twisted it slowly, pressing the door open just enough to peer inside. Then, cautiously, he eased the door wider, and we both stepped in.

The sight stopped me cold.

She layed there, in the center of the room, curled small and fragile on the floor.

Her hair fanned out around her like a dark halo, the strands scattered in every direction.

The room smelled faintly of the air she had been breathing alone for days, stale and quiet.

Every inch of her body looked diminished, almost ghostly in its stillness.

I wanted to move, to kneel beside her, to make sure she was breathing, but my body froze. My eyes took in the slight rise and fall of her chest, the subtle tremor in her fingers, the way her skirt had bunched beneath her. She was so utterly small, so delicate, it made something twist inside me.

The silence pressed down harder, heavier than I’d ever felt in the house.

I could hear my own breathing, Logan’s quiet shuffle beside me, and the faint, ragged whisper of her presence.

It wasn’t just that she was on the floor—it was that she had been here all week, alone, obeying me without question, enduring without complaint, and I hadn’t even realized.

I felt my jaw clench, fists tightening at my sides, every nerve screaming at me to do something. But for a single, impossible moment, I couldn’t. I just stood there, watching her, the weight of my own mistakes crushing me in ways I wasn’t used to.

My chest seizes, and then I’m moving before my brain even catches up.

The distance between us feels longer than it is, every step dragging, heavy, like I’m wading through mud.

My boots scrape across the floor, too loud in the quiet, until I’m close enough that I can’t stand it anymore.

My knees hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through me, but I don’t give a fuck.

I’m already reaching for her, sliding down beside her limp body. My hand slips under her shoulder, turning her toward me just enough so I can see her face.

Christ.

She’s pale—paler than normal—like someone drained the last trace of life from her. My chest clamps tight, suffocating, as I look at her stillness. I force myself to touch her, brushing her cheek, but my hand almost shakes when I feel how cold she is.

Logan’s suddenly beside me, dropping to the floor, his fingers pressing to her throat with steady precision.

My jaw tightens until it aches, my teeth grinding, because the sight of him touching her makes something vicious stir in me.

But I hold it back. It’s not about me. It’s about whether or not she’s—

“She’s alive,” he says, voice clipped but certain.

The breath I didn’t know I was holding tears out of me like a curse. Alive. Barely, but alive.

“Go.” My voice is sharp, raw in my throat. “Call Mason. Tell him to get his ass here right now.”

Logan doesn’t hesitate, pushing up to his feet. I keep my hand against her cheek, fingers curled against the fragile line of her jaw, like if I let go she’ll slip away entirely.

Logan’s boots pound back across the floor, quick and urgent. He crouches beside me, breath uneven from moving fast.

“Mason’s on his way. Ten minutes, maybe less.”

I don’t answer. My eyes don’t leave her face, the way her lashes are still against her skin like she’s only asleep.

My chest burns. I should feel nothing. This is what I wanted.

No problems. No complications. Just a piece on the board to move where I fucking want.

That’s what she was supposed to be. A piece. Replaceable.

But she doesn’t feel replaceable now.

Logan shifts closer, his voice low, careful. “Let’s get her off the floor. I’ll put her on the bed—”

“No the fuck you won’t.”

The words tear out of me, sharper than I meant, but I don’t take them back. Logan freezes, then leans back a little, watching me like he knows better than to argue.

I slide my arm under her, lifting her against my chest. It’s too easy. She weighs almost nothing, her body folding into me like air, like she isn’t even there at all. The hollowness of it makes my gut twist.

She doesn’t stir, not even a breath against my neck. I push up to my feet, holding her tight, my jaw locked hard as I carry her the few steps across the room.

The bed dips as I lower her onto it, slow, careful. My hands move without thought, arranging her so she lies flat against the sheets. I let go, but it feels wrong, like I’ve just set down something fragile that might break without me holding it together.

I stand there for a moment, just staring down at her stillness.

Silence stretched between us. Logan stood there, arms folded, jaw tight. The air pressed in until he finally snapped.

“This is on you.” His voice was sharp, cracking through the quiet like glass. “She’s like this because of you. You don’t feed her. You keep her locked up. What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”

My head snapped toward him, anger flashing like a blade. “Don’t start that shit with me. You should’ve made sure she ate something. You’ve been hovering around her more than anyone—should’ve done your fucking job.”

Logan’s face went red, eyes burning into mine.

He stepped closer, his voice rising. “You think I didn’t try?

I told her. I told her to eat, more than once.

But she wouldn’t leave that room.” He jabbed a finger toward the door, fury in the gesture.

“Because you told her not to. Because she was fucking terrified of what you’d do if she disobeyed you. ”

The words hit like a gunshot. My hands curled into fists, blood pounding in my temples.

Fuck him. Fuck him for saying it out loud, for putting voice to the thing I already knew.

He wasn’t wrong—that was the worst part.

She listened because she was scared. Every move she made was shackled to the fear of me.

I wanted to tear into him, to remind him of his place, to shut him the fuck up. But the image of her limp against me, light as air, pressed harder than any rage.

My jaw ground tight, the words staying caged in my throat.

I snarl back anyway. “How the fuck was I supposed to know she’d take me so literally? She’s not a child! She should fucking know better!”

Logan’s whole body trembles with fury, his voice cracking. “There’s clearly something fucking wrong with her, Adrian! Have you not noticed?”

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Of course I’ve noticed. You think I’m blind? She looks at me like I hung the fucking moon, Logan. She hangs on every word, every glance, like it’s gospel. She craves my approval, my praise—like she can’t fucking breathe without it. Normal people don’t do that!”

I step closer to him, voice lowering into a dangerous growl. “And if you think pointing it out like I’m some kind of idiot who doesn’t see it, you’re wrong. You’re goddamn wrong, Logan.”

Logan flinches, but doesn’t back off. “Then stop pretending you don’t care. You’re fucking with her head every day. You’re pushing her, and she’s too small, too fragile for this. Do you even see what you’re doing?”

“Fragile? Don’t fucking lecture me about fragile!” I snap, my hands balling into fists. “She’s not a piece of furniture, Logan! And don’t you dare act like I don’t know what I’m doing. You have no idea—none. So shove it, because I’m not taking orders from you about her, you hear me?”

Logan’s chest rises and falls, his hands trembling with rage. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m not seeing it? She’s broken, Adrian! And if you don’t fix this, if you don’t stop this madness, she’s gonna end up worse than before!”

I can feel my blood boiling, my teeth grit together. “Fix this? Goddamn it, Logan, I didn’t make her broken. I’m not gonna coddle her or babysit her like some goddamn child. She’s mine, and I’ll handle it my way, you piece of shit!”

For a moment we just stare, chest to chest, fury mirrored in each other’s eyes. The tension thrums like a live wire in the room. I know he’s right about some of it, and that’s what makes my skin crawl. But I’m too far gone to admit it. I won’t.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed through the hall before I even saw him, and then Mason was in the room, moving fast, all energy and fury.

“I swear to the gods above,” he barked, eyes wild, “if you got shot, Adrian, I will kill you with my own hands!”

I whipped around, letting my anger flare for a moment before logic caught me. “I didn’t get shot, you idiot.” I gestured to the bed, where Lily lay pale and unmoving. “She’s the problem, not me.”

Mason blinked, like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard me right, and then Logan stepped forward, unable to stay quiet.

“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly, his hands flailing in frustration.

“Adrian hasn’t fed her in a week. She refused to leave her room because he told her not to. We found her passed out on the floor.”

Mason froze mid-step, his eyes darting to her, then back to us.

He straightened and stiffened like someone had shoved a knife through his chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, disbelief coating every word.

His gaze flicked between Lily and me, then back to Logan, and the raw fury in his tone was almost tangible.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. I could feel the judgment in his stare pressing into me, the anger, the concern, the disbelief. Every second Mason spent looking at her like that made the pit in my stomach twist tighter.

Mason dropped his bag onto the chair and moved to her side without another word, all business now.

His hands were steady as he touched her wrist, then her throat, counting seconds with that clinical detachment that made my skin crawl.

He pressed lightly against her ribs, his jaw tightening the longer he stayed silent.

I hated it. Hated the way he hovered over her, hated the way Logan stood back with that righteous look in his eyes like he’d just uncovered the truth of the fucking century.

“She’s dehydrated. Weak. Malnourished,” Mason said finally, his voice clipped. His eyes shot up to me, hard enough to cut. “Jesus Christ, Adrian—her body’s on the verge of shutting down. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” I snapped before I could stop myself, the words bitter and sharp. “I didn’t know she’d take me so fucking literally.”

“That’s the problem,” Logan burst out, his tone raw, almost pleading.

“She does take you literally. Everything. Every fucking word. Have you not noticed? Have you been too blind to see it? She’s not normal, Adrian.

There’s something wrong, something off, and you treat her like she’s a game piece you can shove around the board however you like. ”

I rounded on him, my blood spiking hot. “Don’t fucking lecture me in my own house.”

Logan didn’t back down—of course he didn’t. “Then maybe open your fucking eyes! You told her not to leave her room and she starved herself because of it! She passed out alone on the floor while you were out drinking yourself into another rage!”

The words hit harder than I wanted them to, but I shoved the feeling down, crushing it beneath the anger clawing at my chest. “She could’ve asked for food!” I shot back, my voice rough, breaking. “She could’ve said something—”

“She couldn’t,” Logan bit out. “That’s the point.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Mason was still working, moving with calm efficiency—checking her breathing, lifting her eyelids, setting his tools out on the table—but I could feel his judgment radiating just as loud as Logan’s voice had been.

And for the first time, I didn’t have an answer. Just rage clawing through my throat and a weight in my chest I couldn’t fucking shake.

Mason’s voice cut sharp through the room, low but deadly in its precision. “Logan’s right. She’s not like everyone else, Adrian. You’ve been blind, or worse—ignoring it. You want to pretend she’s just another girl you dragged in here, but look at her. Look at her.”

I did. Fucking hell, I couldn’t stop looking. Her skin pale, lips cracked, her frame too fragile beneath the weight of my sheets. It didn’t make sense. None of it ever made sense with her.

“She doesn’t eat unless you give her permission,” Mason went on, his jaw clenched tight. “She doesn’t speak unless you ask her a direct question. She doesn’t even fucking breathe too loud unless she thinks you’ll allow it. And you’re telling me you didn’t notice?”

The fury ripped through me before I could choke it down.

“I noticed,” I snarled, pacing because if I stood still I’d lose my fucking mind.

“I noticed the way she freezes when anyone moves too fast, the way she stares like she’s waiting for orders, the way she—” My hands dragged through my hair, fists tight in the strands.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out! Don’t you fucking think I’ve been trying? ”

Logan’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “Trying? Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been pushing her harder, waiting to see when she breaks.”

“Because she doesn’t break!” I shot back, my chest heaving. “She does everything I ask, without hesitation, without question. You think I know how to handle that? You think I’ve ever met anyone like her before? I haven’t. I don’t fucking understand her—”

“Then maybe start trying to,” Mason snapped, louder now, his patience gone.

His eyes burned into me. “Because this girl… she’s not playing some game with you, Adrian.

This is survival. Every move she makes, every word out of her mouth—it’s learned.

Conditioned. You tell her not to leave her room, she doesn’t leave her room.

You tell her to sit, she’ll sit until her body gives out.

That’s not loyalty. That’s not obedience. That’s trauma.”

The word landed heavy, like a blow to the ribs. Trauma.

My jaw locked. My fists clenched. I wanted to deny it, wanted to shove the word back down his throat, but the truth of it stuck in my head like barbed wire. Trauma.

And I hated it. Hated him for saying it, hated her for making me see it, hated myself most of all because for the first time, I realized—I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was dealing with.

Logan takes a step toward me, like he might swing, but stops short, fists trembling at his sides. “She’s not some fucking puzzle for you to pick apart when you’re in the mood. She’s starving. She’s terrified to move unless you tell her she can. Have you not noticed? Or do you just not care?”

My chest heaves. “I fucking get it, alright?” My voice is a growl, the kind that tears out of me when I’m seconds from losing control. “Back the fuck off, Logan.”

For a moment he just stares at me, eyes burning with a kind of disappointment that cuts deeper than his words. Then he shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and storms out, the door slamming behind him so hard the walls vibrate.

The silence that follows is heavier than the shouting. Mason lets it stretch before he finally moves closer, his bag hitting the chair with a dull thud. His tone is clipped, all business, but there’s a hard edge under it.

“She should wake tomorrow,” he says, checking the IV line with practiced efficiency.

“I’ve started fluids. When she does wake, you keep it slow with the food.

Small portions, easy to digest." His gaze cuts to me, sharp and knowing. “This isn’t just the past week, Adrian. Her body tells a longer story—malnutrition, neglect. This goes back years.”

My hands curl into fists. Years. That word rattles around in my skull, scraping against all the questions I’ve been trying to drown.

I stay quiet, because for once I don’t have a fucking answer.

°°°°°

Another chapter done...

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