3. Liath
LIATH
Acello, slow and heavy, moved through me as if it had been stitched into my bones, the vibration sitting behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.
The darkness behind my eyelids moved.
Velvet dahlia petals, impossible and black, bloomed and collapsed in the shadows behind my eyes.
A memory? A dream? Whatever it was, it clung.
The cello note deepened. A whisper slipped in after it, so close it might have been inside my skull.
“I’m going to have to break you…because only what breaks can be rebuilt.”
My stomach clenched.
My eyes opened.
Dark high ceilings loomed overhead, their plastered arches stretched with shadows, an iron chandelier falling from the center. The light in the room came muted, filtered through heavy crimson curtains that dulled it to a washed-out gray.
The sheets I was lying on smelled wrong. Not dirty or old. Just wrong. Bleach and dust and something beneath it, something metallic and stale.
Underneath it was the smell of paint and sweet almonds.
I shifted under the linen, the coarse weave scraping over my bare legs. My mind hadn’t caught up yet, and I had no fecking idea where I was.
My pulse skipped once. Hard.
I wasn’t in my bed. Wasn’t in my room.
I sat up too fast. The room spun in a slow, nauseating roll before the corners clicked back into place.
The walls were covered in faded black-and-white floral wallpaper, the furniture was heavy and ornate, all iron and dark wood, and there was a large fireplace framed with a marble mantel against the opposite wall. A single burgundy rug covered the dark wood floors.
A desk sat against another wall, its corners rounded, as if it had been designed for a child. Or someone considered dangerous.
I frowned. The chair was bolted to the floor.
I pushed the covers off and swung my legs over the edge of the creaking bed. My muscles protested instantly, stiff and unresponsive, as though I hadn’t moved in days. Every limb was heavy, as if they’d forgotten how to work.
But what was even more disturbing was the dress I was wearing, plain cotton, the color of bleached bones. It hung stiff on my frame, boxy and sterile, like something scraped from the back of a hospital supply room.
It wasn’t mine. My wardrobe was a riot of thrifted pieces. Velvet jackets in deep purple, oversized sweaters in wine red, slip skirts that shimmered green when they caught the light. I liked patterns that clashed and fabrics that felt lived in.
This? This dress didn’t belong to me. It erased me.
My clothes were gone, stripped from me while I was unconscious. Someone had undressed me. Someone had put this on me. Like I was a child. Like I was an object.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand, the stiffness grinding through me as I hobbled toward the door, a heavy thing, tall and carved, almost elegant in its proportions.
The handle was brass, polished to a shine, but cold when I curled my fingers around it, colder than anything else in the room.
The hinges looked seamless, industrial, as if they’d been reinforced beneath the antique facade.
Even the edges of the doorframe seemed too thick, too solid, as if built to contain.
Something in me recoiled even as I turned the handle and pulled.
It was locked.
I twisted it harder. Yanked it. Nothing. I slammed my palm against the wood as I fought to steady the panic rising like bile in my throat.
“Hello?” My voice cracked, thin and too high. “Let me out! Please!”
I hit the door again, harder this time, shoulders shuddering with the force. “Is someone there? I said let me out!”
No answer. Not even the echo of movement beyond the door. The silence wasn’t empty. It was padded, deadened. Designed to be that way.
I stumbled back, my breath loud in my ears.
Come on, think.
I dug through my thoughts as if I were rummaging through a dusty attic—boxes upended, memories scattered, nothing where it was supposed to be. My brain was wrapped in cotton, fogged at the edges, and everything I touched inside it came back in fragments.
What was the last thing I remembered?
A low thump of bassy cello. The scent of wax and musk. Someone was watching me. I was sure of it. A face hidden in the dark petals.
My thoughts shifted again, slower this time, and I found the vodka and cranberry burning down my throat. Candlelight catching on mirrors. The red wax melted into pools.
I had been at The Vault.
And then—
Nothing.
I turned from the door, nearly stumbling as I rushed to the window, throwing back the thin, gauzy curtains. My hands hit cold glass. It was thick, almost murky, like something meant to keep the outside world from feeling real. Vertical bars ran the length of it, black iron set deep into the frame.
I pressed my face to the glass.
A manicured garden sprawled beyond. Impossibly neat hedges curled in precise lines. Gravel paths wound through dark-leaved bushes with roses the color of blood. Stone fountains trickled water in the center of perfect circles, and wrought-iron benches sat like ghosts under leaf-heavy trees.
It was too perfect. Too composed. It didn’t feel real.
Was it? Could it be a projection? A backdrop? My eyes darted around, searching for seams or reflections or some sign I was being tricked.
Where the hell was I?
I grabbed the bars and shook them. Nothing. They didn’t even creak.
The quiet snick of the latch broke the silence like a gunshot.
My whole body stilled as the bedroom door creaked open, slow and deliberate, the sound scraping against my nerves.
I spun toward it, heart vaulting into my throat, pulse thundering in my ears, every muscle in my body locked.
A man stepped through the doorway—forties, tall, a white coat hanging off his broad shoulders filling the frame.
His eyes found mine almost instantly, as if he already knew where I’d be, like he’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times.
There was recognition in his gaze, a warm familiarity in his gentle, reassuring smile.
But I didn’t know him. I was certain I’d never seen his face before.
His hair was dark with the faintest touch of silver at the temples, combed back from a strong, broad forehead. His jaw was sharply cut, clean-shaven, his exacting, predatory gaze framed by thick brows that gave his expression a gravity that made it hard to look away.
There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose—not quite straight, not quite perfect—the only flaw in his otherwise sculpted face. But it didn’t detract from his beauty. If anything, it made him more striking. More real. Masculine in a way that was carved and earned.
If I weren’t terrified and confused out of my mind, I might’ve been attracted to him.
Behind him walked a woman in a crisp white uniform, blond hair tucked into a tight chignon, her expression unreadable as her eyes swept the room as if she were logging every detail. She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. She just watched me the way you’d watch a horse who might bolt.
“W-Who are you?” My voice came out hoarse and cracked. “Where the fuck am I?”
“I’m Dr. Bron Deargán,” he said, his deep voice calm and melodic as if he were trying to soothe me. “You’re in the Magdalene Institute for Troubled Women, Rua.”
An asylum?
A jolt ran through my shoulders, my fingers curling reflexively at my sides as if bracing for a blow.
My pulse spiked.
And who the hell was Rua?
“My name isn’t Rua,” I snapped. “I’m not troubled. This is a mistake.”
Dr. Deargán shared a look with the nurse, a look of quiet disappointment. Like I’d just failed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
“You’re safe, Rua,” he said as he turned back to face me, his voice soft. “You’re just confused. You’ve had an episode, that’s all.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m feckin’ stupid,” I snapped, heat rushing up my neck, burning in my cheeks. My voice shook, not with fear, but fury. “Let me the fuck out.”
“You’re not stupid,” he said gently, like I was a child, his hands out as he neared. “You’re brave. You’ve come so far.”
His scent hit me. Clove. Pepper. That dark, expensive musk.
The cello pulled low through my ribs, thick and resonant, vibrating against bone.
The alley.
The needle.
My stomach dropped.
It was him.
He took me. Drugged me. Fucking kidnapped me.
He did this to me.
My throat tightened with the kind of scream that didn’t come out as sound, just pressure, rage, need. I needed out. I needed air. I needed to not be here.
The nurse stepped forward, something glinting in her hand.
It was a needle.
Another fucking needle.
My breath stuttered. “No,” I said, backing up. “Don’t you dare.”
“It’s only to help you settle,” Deargán said softly.
The cello vibrated again, a low warning note.
“Stay still, Rua.”
Something inside me snapped. I barreled through them, running straight for the open door. I stumbled barefoot into a long hallway, breath snagging in my throat as cold air slapped against my skin.
But he didn’t chase after me. The only thing that followed me was his voice, calm and controlled, chilling me to the bone.
“You won’t get far.”
I sprinted past wall sconces burning low against windowless wood-paneled walls, their antique brass frames casting warped shadows that stretched like fingers, the bulbs inside them buzzing with an anxious hum, blinking unevenly, throwing off bursts of light that pulsed like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
God, the hallway seemed to stretch out forever like I was in the belly of a snake. My bare feet slapped against the cold floorboards, my lungs burning.
I came to a fork in the corridor. I couldn’t tell which direction felt less wrong.
Like I was fucked no matter which way I’d choose.
There were no signs, no fire maps, no guidance. Just two yawning mouths and the pressure of the unfamiliar building breathing around me, watching me.
I hesitated, every muscle tight with indecision, then sprinted left. Each step echoed wrong. Too loud. Too delayed. The echo lagged behind me, half a second too slow, like the building kept sucking it back.
Doors lined the walls, some open just enough to glimpse flickering shadows. Whispers drifted out like smoke, curling into words I couldn’t make out.
Somewhere, someone was laughing. Wetly. A cough came from down the hall. Another voice chanted, rhythmic and soft, as if praying.
One door creaked wider as I passed. Inside, a girl sat curled in the fetal position, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking. Her lips moved, but the song she whispered was broken, tuneless. It scraped down my spine like nails.
Holy fuck.
This was a real asylum.
My vision tunneled. My fingers tingled. I couldn’t feel the floor properly under my feet.
Somewhere down the corridor, an alarm started to wail, soft at first, then swelling like a siren in water. A voice crackled over the speaker above my head, calm and female.
“Paging patient Rua Lasair.”
Lasair.
That wasn’t my name.
So why did it sound almost familiar?
“Rua Lasair. Return to your room immediately.”
No fucking way.
I turned a corner and skidded to a halt. It was a dead end. Panic clawed up my throat. How the fuck could I get out of here?
I turned to run back down the hallway I’d just come from, to retrace my steps. But I froze, my stomach dropping.
The corridor had changed. The lights were dimmer, the walls now smothered in charcoal and gold damask wallpaper, peeling in thick, damp strips. The ornate sconces were spaced differently. The doors were closer together.
Or had they always been?
A girl in a thin hospital gown stood in the center of the hallway, eyes closed, head tilted back. Her mouth moved in a near-silent whisper.
“Rua… Rua… Rua…”
Like she’d been saying it for a long time. Like a curse. Or a summoning.
I grabbed her arm, not hard, but sharp enough to make her stumble.
“Please,” I gasped, “how do I get out of here?”
She opened her eyes slowly, didn’t blink, just stared through me with vacant eyes.
“Nobody leaves,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Never.”
My pulse slammed against my throat.
And somewhere behind me, close enough to feel, the cello began again.