Adrien #2
I exhale through my nose, already resigned to the fact that this woman is irritatingly good at her job and can see straight through me.
“This morning,” I admit, the words carrying an unpleasant hint of shame.
“This morning,” she repeats evenly.
“Yes.”
“Cold turkey,” she concludes.
“More like… aggressively motivated,” I offer.
“That’s not better,” she says without missing a beat.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“What type of medication?”
“Anxiety meds. Stuff for panic attacks…” I murmur.
She proceeds to make me list the exact pills I was taking before, together with dosage, frequency, duration, one by one. It’s all very methodical and very uncomfortable.
By the time she stops writing and looks back up at me, I feel mildly exposed and profoundly judged.
“Okay, so,” she clasps her hands together, as though preparing for a difficult conversation. “This is not therapy,” she says flatly.
I drop my hands on my knees. “I was just about to open up.”
“You’re trying to be funny.”
“Am I failing?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you supposed to help people? You literally just broke my heart.”
She gives me a long, unblinking stare.
“Now I need that therapy,” I add.
Another long stare.
“This,” she says calmly, “is an assessment. And right now, you’re telling me several important things without meaning to.”
“Such as?” I ask, leaning back slightly.
“You’re dysregulated, sleep-deprived, running on adrenaline, and you have a tendency toward self-destructive problem-solving. Am I right?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Adrien, I’m here to help Natalya. But,” she continues, holding my gaze, “I can also be here for you. If you don’t make that impossible.”
“Let’s just focus on Natalya, please,” I say quickly.
“Okay, then,” she exhales, not hiding a flicker of disappointment. “In that case, I need to understand whether you’re a stabilizing presence, or another variable for her.”
I grimace. “Those are the only two options?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well,” I say, rubbing my face, “I’d like to formally apply for the first one.”
“Then you’re going to have to stop making unilateral decisions about substances,” she says. “Especially when you’re this activated.”
I nod. “Fair.”
“Adrien, I need you to understand something very clearly.”
I finally stop fidgeting, my leg stills and my hands unclench.
“You are not her treatment, and you are not her anchor right now.”
That hurts more than I’d like to admit.
“I know,” I say quickly. “I just—”
“You just want to fix it,” she interrupts gently. “Control it or make it right.”
I swallow.
“That impulse is dangerous.”
“For who?” I ask.
“For both of you.”
Silence settles between us, thick and uncomfortable.
“You’re allowed to be present,” she says more fondly now. “But only if you can remain predictable, consistent, and safe.”
Predictable, consistent, and safe—I mentally scratch it into my brain.
I can do that.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” she repeats, as if making sure I actually understand the weight of it.
“Okay,” I say, quieter and genuine this time.
“I’m here for you,” she adds. “Anytime you need.”
And of course, that’s when the guilt hits.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
“You don’t need to,” she replies, a faint curve appearing at the corner of her mouth. “You pay enough.”
Wait. Was that supposed to be a joke? Mine was better.
I huff a tired laugh anyway.
“You’re good at what you do,” I admit.
“Thanks.” She nods humbly.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” I ask with a hint of pleading in my voice.
“Of course she will,” she assures me with a genuine smile.
?
The basement doesn’t smell like death anymore. The guys cleaned it up, scrubbed the concrete, aired the space out and erased the worst of it, fortunately.
I take the last few steps down the stairs slowly.
And there he is.
Lucien, in all his misplaced glory. Calm and unbothered like he’s waiting for a verdict, not a consequence.
He’s covered in blood from the shoulder wound, hair smeared and clotted with sweat while he’s crumpled on the floor, back pressed to the wall, legs spread lazily, head tilted backward as if he’s resting.
He barely opens his eyes when I take the last step. I stop a few feet away and sit down on the final stair, deliberately keeping the distance of a couple of meters.
Enough space to breathe, because I can’t snap yet. I need answers first, actual answers. And right now I’m running on nothing but exhaustion, backlash, and every thought edged with violence I’m struggling to contain. So, those couple meters are needed.
“Wake up, Slytherin,” I warn before taking out the gun and putting one bullet into the wall just a few feet above his head.
There’s that quick delirious feeling in my hand, running from the wrist to the rest of the body as a shot of vitamins. The loud bullet whack ricochets through the concrete basement accompanied by his low growl.
Dust and bits of brick splatter over him, and he just angrily brushes them off before glancing up at me.
“Now that I have your attention,” I say, forcing calm. “Tell me how you did it.”
He forces himself upright, back against the wall.
“Did what,” he snaps back, straightening up.
“How you got to her,” I say. “Did you take her from the ward? Drug her? Force her?”
He genuinely laughs.
“No,” he says. “Nothing that dramatic.”
I don’t move and don’t blink.
“That’s your specialty,” he adds lightly.
Okay. Fair.
He shifts slightly against the wall, wincing just enough to remind me he’s still human, then continues as if we’re having a conversation over coffee instead of this.
“Don’t look for anything evil,” he says. “I basically started visiting her. That’s it.”
“And?”
“I showed up,” he continues. “Consistently and calmly, without rushing her. I didn’t demand anything.”
“And?” I repeat, the word sharper now.
He smiles, just a fraction.
“And as you can see,” he says, “I’m quite charming.”
“I can’t, actually,” I reply. “You’re not really doing it for me.”
“Well,” he says mildly and unfazed. “I was doing it for her apparently enough.”
My vision narrows, instinctively tracking and calculating, already moving ahead of my better judgment. Thank God the human body has two shoulders. Places where damage hurts without ending things. I squint at the target and lift the gun, but he squeaks out— “What! I’m just being honest.”
My attention returns to his face, studying him, memorizing the way confidence collapses when it realizes it may have misjudged the room.
I put the gun down. There’s enough time to have fun with him later. I need him now.
“And you made Bryan lie to us,” I announce.
He just nods.
“Right,” I mumble. “Did you force her into a relationship?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I didn’t.”
“Did you give her meds?”
“Of course.” He frowns, like the answer should be obvious. “Her brain is fried.”
So the marks on her temples were real after all. Kiara was right.
“Psych wards don’t do electrotherapy like that anymore,” I snap. “So how the fuck did that happen?”
He shrugs in a small, uncomfortable motion, like this subject rubs against something he’d rather not touch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re right.”
“So?” I press.
For a second, I think I’m hallucinating, because there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that doesn’t fit with the rest of him.
“It was my father,” he says at last.
“What?” I tilt my head slowly, as if moving too fast might make the words rearrange themselves.
“He ordered it,” Lucien continues, calm again. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why,” I manage, the word scraping out of my throat.
He doesn’t answer and just watches me. There’s something unsettling about how settled he seems, like he’s already made peace with whatever’s coming for him.
“Why did he do that,” I repeat, louder this time.
His pupils flicker, darting away and back, a tiny betrayal of the composure he’s been wearing like armor.
“Because she kept having tantrums,” he admits.
The words don’t hit my chest, they land lower, somewhere deep in my gut.
I can’t be here anymore.
I stand abruptly, the movement too fast for my head.
I need to get out of this place before whatever’s inside me finishes tearing loose.
My hand closes around the nearest chair and I don’t think much, I just smash it toward the wall he’s sitting against, right above his head.
I only hear the wooden chair break on impact with the wall, then I shoot out of there.
The door slams behind me and I collapse against it, sliding down until I hit the floor, lungs burning, hands shaking, head pressed back like the concrete might hold me together.
We didn’t save her. We just moved her from one prison to another.
Kas is suddenly there, looming above me.
“I heard a shot,” he says carefully, his voice measured. “You didn’t kill him, right?”
“No,” I answer, still staring at nothing.
“What happened? Did you get anything useful out of him?”
I just shake my head, trying to pull myself together before answering. “Not really. Did the guys find Bryan?”
“Not yet,” he says.
I can’t bring myself to look at him anymore.
Six years.
Six years of thinking she’s going to make it and have a better life, while she was living under the same shadow we were.
?
The smoke burns in my lungs with an ingrained familiarity as I stare up into the dark sky. The moon is full tonight, wrapped in a faint red halo, like it’s been bruised. The air carries that early-autumn scent, fresh and alive, but not cold yet.
I pace back and forth across the damp grass, taking the last few drags of the cigarette.
Who am I kidding? I didn’t come out here to admire a fucking moon.
My eyes drift—again—to the balcony a few meters away, for the hundredth time since I stepped outside.
I shouldn’t.
Kiara said she was fine today. Stable and calm after the first session with the psychiatrist. She’s probably sleeping now. Locked in, safe, medicated, watched over. Everything is handled.
I keep staring up there.
I really shouldn’t.
When Kas and I bought this place, that room was the obvious best one. The balcony, the view and the quiet that comes with it—it felt like the best room in the house without even trying.