CHAPTER 02
PORCELAIN AND STEEL
POV: Elodie Fray
Location: The Director’s Private Recovery Suite, Hallowed Halls.
Track: Glory Box – Portishead
Sensory: The smell of roasted coffee, the sting of returning circulation, the coldness of bathroom tile.
Mood: Humiliation his hair is damp and combed back with precision, emphasizing the severe, aristocratic lines of his face.
He’s traded the black dress shirt for a charcoal cashmere sweater that looks soft enough to melt against the skin, and dark trousers.
He looks like the cover of a magazine for billionaires who murder people in their spare time.
In his hands, he carries a silver tray. The smell hits me instantly, triggering a painful cramp in my empty stomach. Freshly ground coffee. Butter. Bacon. It is the smell of a normal Sunday morning, a domestic lie brought into this prison.
"Good morning, petite," he says. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of the morning roughness that plagues mortal men.
He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and walks toward the bed. He doesn't look at my face immediately. His eyes sweep over my body, checking the restraints, checking the rise and fall of my chest. It is a clinical scan.
"Did you sleep?" he asks, setting the tray down on the bedside table. The china clinks softly.
"Go to hell," I croak. My voice is weaker than I want it to be. My throat feels like I swallowed broken glass.
Alaric tsks, a sound of mock disappointment. "We worked on your manners last night, Elodie. I expected better retention."
He pours a cup of coffee from a small carafe. He takes a sip, his eyes finally locking onto mine over the rim of the cup. He looks calm. Rested. In control. "I, on the other hand, slept wonderfully. There is something very soothing about knowing exactly where you are."
He sets the cup down and moves to the side of the bed. "Let's get you up. You must be stiff."
"I can't feel my hands," I say, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.
"I know." He reaches for the knot on my left wrist. His fingers work the silk with practiced ease. "It’s the lack of movement. Circulation will return painfully, I’m afraid. Pins and needles."
The silk falls away. I instinctively yank my arm to my chest, cradling it. He was right. A rush of blood floods the limb, bringing with it a stinging, prickling sensation that makes me gasp. I rub my wrist, staring at the red marks that are already fading. No bruises. He was careful.
He moves to the other side and releases my right hand. I am free. For a split second, the reptilian part of my brain screams: Attack. The silver pen is on the table. The heavy crystal tumbler. I could grab it. I could strike him.
Alaric pauses. He doesn't move away. He stands right there, within striking distance, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. He is watching my pupils dilate. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. He’s waiting for it.
He wants me to try, I realize with a jolt of cold terror. He wants the excuse to put me back down.
I let my hands drop to the mattress, exhaling a shaky breath. "Smart girl," he murmurs, a flicker of approval in his eyes.
He reaches out, and I flinch, but he simply pulls the duvet back. "Bathroom," he states. "Then breakfast."
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet are bare, and when they touch the plush rug, my knees buckle. The sedative hasn't fully cleared my system, and my muscles are jelly. I pitch forward.
Alaric catches me. Of course he does. His arm bands around my waist, hard and unyielding like an iron bar wrapped in cashmere.
He pulls me into him. My hands instinctively grab his biceps to steady myself.
The muscle beneath the wool is rock hard.
The heat of him seeps into my cold skin, confusing my senses.
"I’ve got you," he says. It’s not a comfort; it’s a fact.
"I can walk," I mutter, trying to push away.
"Clearly," he draws, sarcasm dripping from the word. He doesn't let go. instead, he bends down and scoops me up into his arms again, just like he did in the woods.
"Put me down!" I struggle weakly, kicking my legs. "I can walk to the bathroom myself!"
"You almost hit your head on the nightstand, Elodie. I am not having you concussed on your first morning." He carries me across the room effortlessly. I am five foot seven, not a child, but he holds me as if I weigh nothing.
He kicks open the door to the en-suite bathroom. It is a palace of marble and chrome. A massive soaking tub, a rainfall shower, and a vanity with a mirror that stretches to the ceiling. He sets me down on the closed lid of the toilet.
"Do your business," he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.
I stare at him. "Get out."
He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I need privacy," I snap, pulling the oversized shirt down to cover my knees. "Leave."
"No." The word is flat. Final. "You are under suicide watch, Elodie. That means constant observation. I don't leave you alone with razors, glass, or lockable doors."
"I’m not going to kill myself!"
"You ran into a forest in a lightning storm without shoes. Your preservation instincts are compromised." He gestures to the toilet. "Go on. I’m a doctor. There is nothing you have that I haven't seen a thousand times."
Heat floods my face, turning my cheeks crimson. This is the tactic. Strip away the dignity. Remove the boundaries. Make me feel like an object, a patient, a child. If I pee in front of him, I lose another layer of myself.
"I can't," I whisper. "Not with you watching."
Alaric sighs, checking his platinum wristwatch. "Elodie, you have a full bladder. We can do this the easy way, where you pretend I’m a piece of furniture, or we can do this the hard way, where I insert a catheter. I have a kit in the cabinet."
He isn't bluffing. I can see it in the dead-serious set of his mouth. He would do it. He would strap me down and shove a tube into me just to prove he has the control.
Tears of frustration prick my eyes. I hate him. I hate him with a violence that scares me. "Turn around," I beg. "Please. Just turn around."
He studies me for a long moment. It’s a negotiation. He is weighing the concession. "Fine," he says. He turns his back to me, facing the mirror. "But if I hear anything suspicious, I turn back around. And I won't turn away again."
My hands shaking, I stand up and fumble with the hem of the shirt.
It is the most humiliating moment of my life.
The sound of my own relief is deafening in the marble acoustic.
I catch his eyes in the mirror. He is looking at his own reflection, fixing a cuff, but I know—I know—he is listening to every drop.
When I’m done, I flush and wash my hands, scrubbing them with the bar of sandalwood soap until the skin is red. I want to scrub his scent off me, but the soap smells like him too. Everything here is him.
"Done?" he asks to the reflection.
"Yes."
He turns around and hands me a toothbrush. It’s new, still in the wrapper. "Brush. Then we eat."
The domesticity is jarring. He watches me brush my teeth. He hands me a towel to wipe my face. It is intimate in a way that feels more violating than sex. He is invading the small, private rituals of my morning.
He carries me back to the bedroom, ignoring my protests that I am stronger now.
He deposits me in the wingback chair by the window.
Outside, the sky is a bruised purple. The grounds of Hallowed Halls stretch out below us—manicured lawns, high stone walls, and the dense, dark forest beyond. It looks like a fortress.