Chapter 54 #2
“Others could certainly attempt it. But only someone with your claimed... control technique would be able to keep her beast suppressed long enough for the act to be completed without injury,” Thorn said in that measured academic tone making the whole thing ten times worse.
He gestured vaguely at Elora without looking at her. “So. Did you?”
Rell’s jaw locked so tight his molars ached.
His fingers dug into Elora’s shoulder before he caught himself and loosened them again.
The implication sat in his stomach like a hot coal—that the only way this sick fuck could imagine Rell having sex with her was if he’d forced her.
Like that was a thing. Like Rell would ever—like any decent person would ever—
He shook his head once, hard. Every word fighting to get out of his mouth would’ve blown their whole cover to hell. What kind of monster—. She’s a person. I would never— But he couldn’t say any of it. Not without Thorn clocking exactly how much he actually cared about her.
Thorn watched him for a long beat, then frowned. “Why not?”
Rell’s brain short-circuited. How the hell was he supposed to answer that? Because I’m not a fucking rapist? Would Thorn even understand that answer? The guy literally started a forced breeding program. He was planning to breed Elora like a prize mare. Morality clearly wasn’t in his vocabulary.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“She’s—I’m her handler. That’s—that’s not part of the job.
” The words tasted like ash. He hated himself for saying them, for reducing her to something he handled, but what else was he supposed to do?
Tell the truth? That he cared about her too much to ever do anything she didn’t want, and that he’d rather die than let anyone hurt her.
“My intent has only ever been to sell her, and broken goods don’t fetch much coin.” He forced his voice to stay flat, disinterested. “Besides, she’s not exactly my type.”
The lie tasted worse than the others. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest at the words, at the casual dismissal of everything she was. He felt Elora stiffen against him, her shoulder blade pressing harder into his chest.
Thorn studied him for another long moment before nodding slowly. “Fair enough. Professional boundaries are important.”
Thorn’s attention swung to Elora then, and Rell felt her whole body go rigid against his chest. Thorn finally actually looked at her—not at her arms or her abdomen or whatever the hell he’d been cataloguing before, but at her face.
Those dead eyes locked onto hers with that calculating stare, and Rell’s gut twisted because he knew exactly what was coming next.
The question was sitting right there on Thorn’s tongue, ready to drop.
“Now, you—” Thorn started, leaning in.
“We don’t even know for certain yet, Uncle.
” Florence interjected from across the room.
“Missed cycles could be caused by any number of factors. Stress. Malnutrition. The Al’teran integration itself.
” She tapped her finger against the journal in her hand.
“We should draw blood first and go from there.”
Thorn held his silence for a long, awful moment, his eyes not leaving Elora’s face. “Fine,” he finally said. He gestured to the metal gurney as he walked past to grab a needle. “Sit.”
Rell guided Elora forward, his hand still resting on her shoulder. Florence drifted back, positioning herself near Thorn’s desk where rows of blood samples from other wards were meticulously arranged. Her eyes shifting between Thorn and the vials.
Elora stopped dead, a shiver running through her like she’d been shocked. She shook her head—just a tiny “hell no” that made Rell’s heart skip a beat.
From behind Thorn, Florence caught Elora’s eye. Her lips formed silent words: “Do it.” She gave a subtle nod, her fingers trailing along the edge of Thorn’s desk, near a small flask Rell hadn’t noticed before.
Part of Rell’s brain clocked that Florence was up to something, working some angle of their plan. But the rest of him just wanted to grab Elora, get the fuck out of this clinical nightmare, and never let that creep near her again. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to shield her, to bolt.
But he swallowed it down. Had to.
Elora inched forward like she was walking on broken glass and perched on the edge of the gurney. Thorn made no move to secure the restraints. It felt like a trap, but Rell couldn’t figure the angle.
He planted himself practically right in front of her, close enough that his body cut off Thorn’s view. His hands rested on her shoulders, applying light pressure, making Thorn believe he was keeping the beast back from surging at the threat.
Elora’s golden eyes darted frantically, tracking Thorn from the corner of her vision as he approached with the syringe. Her fingers dug into the gurney edge, knuckles bone-white.
“If you’re going to be difficult,” Thorn said, towering over her. “I’ll have no choice but to use the restraints. Which would you prefer?”
The threat hung in the air between them. Elora’s shoulders dropped as she stuck her arm out, palm up. Her eyes squeezed shut, those dark lashes like smudges against her ghost-white face.
Thorn grabbed her forearm, fingers digging in as he hunted for a vein.
Rell watched the needle jab into her skin, every muscle in his body screaming at him to rip the guy’s throat out.
Blood—too red, too much—rushed into the vial.
As he watched, he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting.
Is it possible? The thought hollowed him out instantly.
Gerard. The tower. How long was she there before he found her?
The clock on the wall might as well have stopped until Thorn yanked the needle out and passed the vial to Florence. The second he stepped back, Elora let out this shaky gasp like she’d been drowning, her chest heaving in rapid succession.
Florence selected a small crystal flask filled with iridescent liquid from among the dozens of containers lining the shelf. She measured three drops into a shallow dish, then added Elora’s blood.
The reaction was immediate. The mixture fizzed and bubbled before settling into a stark, milky white.
Florence’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she said nothing as she presented the dish to Thorn.
Thorn’s face changed in that scary way that meant someone was about to get hurt.
His jaw went tight, like he was biting through steel, while he stared at the mixture like it had personally screwed him over.
A muscle jumped under his left eye, twitching like it had a life of its own—the only real tell that the guy was about to lose his shit.