CHAPTER 14
FEVER DREAMS
POV: Elodie Fray
Location: The Glass House (Master Bedroom / Living Area)
Track: I Found – Amber Run (Acoustic Version)
Sensory: The smell of burning wood and rotting flesh, the howling of the blizzard, the searing heat of feverish skin.
Mood: Forced Intimacy they just get angry. For the last forty-eight hours, he has been pacing the glass cage like a wounded tiger. He snaps at me if I ask if he’s hungry. He checks the security monitors obsessively, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He wears his leather jacket even inside the house, shivering when he thinks I’m not looking.
But he can't hide the smell. It’s a sickly, sweet rot that cuts through the scent of the woodsmoke and his expensive scotch.
It hangs in the air, cloying and heavy. I know what it is.
It’s the hand. The hand he sliced open on the wine glass at the dinner.
The hand I licked clean. The hand he refused to stitch up because he was too busy kidnapping me.
"Alaric," I say. My voice sounds too loud in the silent house.
He is standing by the north window, staring out into the whiteout with the rifle in his good hand. His bad hand—the right one—is shoved deep into his jacket pocket. He doesn't turn. "Go back to bed, Elodie. It’s cold."
"You're sweating," I counter, walking toward him. I am barefoot, wearing one of his cashmere sweaters that falls to my knees. "And you’ve been standing there for two hours. There’s nothing to see. The sensors are clear."
"The sensors can fail," he rasps. His voice is wrecked—gravel grinding on glass. "Vance’s partner... the mole... they are resourceful. They could use the storm as cover."
I reach him. I can feel the heat radiating off him from a foot away. He is a furnace. "Let me see your hand."
He flinches away from me, turning his shoulder to block my path. "It’s fine."
"It’s not fine. I can smell it, Alaric."
He freezes. He turns slowly to look at me. His face is a mask of grey exhaustion. Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes, making the silver irises look eerily bright, almost manic. Sweat beads on his forehead, matting his dark hair. He looks like a ghost haunting his own house.
"You smell fear," he tries to joke, but the smirk falters.
"I smell infection," I say, stepping into his space. I am not afraid of him right now. The dynamic has shifted. Gravity has tilted. "Show me."
"No."
"Show me, or I walk out that door into the storm and let the wolves eat me."
It’s a bluff. We both know it. But his paranoia is so high, his fever-brain so rattled, that he buys it. Fear flashes in his eyes—the fear of losing the possession. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket.
It is wrapped in a makeshift bandage—a strip of torn black t-shirt. The fabric is soaked through with dark, crusty fluids. I reach out and gently, gently, take his wrist. His skin is burning hot. I unwrap the cloth.
I gasp. The palm of his hand is a ruin. The cut from the wine glass—originally a clean slice—is now a jagged, angry mouth.
The edges are swollen, turning a terrifying shade of purple-black.
Yellow pus oozes from the center, streaked with red.
Red lines are starting to track up his wrist, disappearing into his sleeve.
Sepsis. The blood poisoning is moving toward his heart.
"Jesus, Alaric," I whisper, looking up at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Pain is information," he mutters, quoting his own twisted philosophy. He sways on his feet, his eyes rolling back slightly. "It tells you... you're still..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. His knees buckle. The rifle clatters to the floor with a deafening crash. Alaric Graves—the monster, the savior, the king of the asylum—collapses.
I catch him. Or I try to. He is six foot three of solid muscle and dead weight. He crashes into me, driving me to the polished concrete floor. My knees slam against the stone, pain shooting up my legs, but I manage to cushion his head before it hits the ground.
"Alaric!" I shake him. "Alaric, wake up!"
He groans, his eyes fluttering. "Elodie... lock the door..."
"The door is locked," I promise, trying to wriggle out from under his weight. "You have to get up. I can't carry you."
He is burning up. I can feel the fever soaking through his clothes into mine.
I have a choice. I look at the door. I know the code.
I watched him punch it in. I could leave him here.
I could let the infection take him. It would be slow, painful, and guaranteed.
In twenty-four hours, he would be dead or too weak to stop me.
I could take the helicopter keys from his pocket.
I don't know how to fly, but I could try.
Or I could find a radio. I could be free.
I look down at his face. Even in pain, his features are sharp, beautiful in a cruel way. “I didn't push her. And I won't push you.” He saved me from my father. He gave me the music back. He killed for me. And he is the only thing standing between me and a world that wants me dead.
"Damn you," I whisper, tears of frustration pricking my eyes.
I shove him off me and scramble to my feet. "Alaric, listen to me," I say, using the voice I used on the horse. The Command Voice. "Stand up."
He blinks, trying to focus on me. "Can't..."
"You can. You rode the chaos. Now ride the pain. Stand up!"
I grab his good arm and pull. He grunts, gritting his teeth, and forces his body to obey. He stumbles up, leaning heavily on me. I stagger under his weight, my arm wrapped around his waist, his arm draped over my shoulders. We are a pathetic, three-legged beast shuffling toward the stairs.
"Downstairs," I pant. "We need the med kit."
"Bathroom," he slurs. "Under the sink. Surgical grade."
Of course. He has a surgical kit in his bathroom. Because he is prepared for everything except his own mortality.
Getting him down the spiral staircase is a nightmare. Twice we almost fall. By the time we reach the master bedroom, I am drenched in sweat and shaking with exertion. I dump him onto the bed. He sprawls across the fur throw, shivering violently. "Cold," he chatters. "So cold."
"I know," I say, running to the bathroom. I find the kit. It’s a metal box. Inside: scalpels, sutures, antiseptic, antibiotics, morphine. I grab it all. I run back to the bed.
"Alaric, I need to clean this," I say, climbing onto the mattress beside him. "It’s going to hurt."
He laughs—a weak, delirious sound. "Good."
I cut the sleeve of his jacket and shirt off with surgical scissors, exposing his arm. The red streaks are higher now, halfway to his elbow. I pour the antiseptic over his hand. He hisses, his back arching off the bed, his hand clenching into a fist. "Open your hand!" I order. "Don't fight me!"
He forces his fingers open. The wound bubbles. I have to cut the dead tissue. I pick up the scalpel. My hand hovers. I am a pianist, not a surgeon. My hands are made for creating beauty, not carving flesh. Show me the monster.
I take a breath. I focus. I cut. Alaric roars. It is a primal sound, choked back by sheer will. He bites into the pillow, his body thrashing. I pin his wrist down with my knee. "Stay still!"
I work quickly. I cut away the black, necrotic edges. I flush the wound again. I inject the morphine directly into his arm. I inject the strongest antibiotic I can find. I thread the needle. I stitch him up. Ten jagged, black sutures closing the mouth of the wound.
When I am done, I am covered in his blood. My hands are red. My sweater is ruined. Alaric has stopped thrashing. The morphine has pulled him under. He is breathing heavily, shallow gasps that rattle in his chest.
I bandage the hand. I sit back on my heels, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a bloody wrist. I look at him. He looks small. For the first time since I met him, the Director looks human. And that terrifies me more than the monster ever did.
Night falls like a hammer blow. The storm intensifies, howling around the glass house, rattling the panes in their frames. The power flickers. Once. Twice. Then dies. The generator kicks in instantly, a distant hum, but the heating system takes a moment to reset. The temperature in the room drops.
Alaric is freezing. Despite the mound of blankets I’ve piled on him, he is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. The fever spike is here. I check his temperature with the digital thermometer from the kit. 103.5°F. "No," I whisper. "Come on, fight it."
I get a bowl of cool water and a cloth. I sit by his head and wipe his face. He is mumbling. Fragments of sentences. Ghosts of the past. "...didn't mean to..." "...too loud... the music is too loud..." "...Clara, step back..."
I freeze. He is dreaming of her. "I'm not Clara," I whisper, wiping his brow. "I'm Elodie."
He turns his head, his eyes opening. They are blind, seeing things that aren't there. "Elodie," he gasps. "Don't go. The silence... don't let the silence back in."
"I'm here."
"They want to take you," he whimpers, gripping my wrist with his good hand. His grip is surprisingly strong, fueled by panic. "The Board. Sterling. They want to turn you into a doll. Don't let them."
"I won't."
"I had to break it," he confesses, tears leaking from his eyes. "The glass. The glass was too thin. I had to make it iron."
"Shh," I soothe. "Rest."
"Cold," he moans. "Elodie... please..."
He is hypothermic from the fever chills. The blankets aren't enough. I look at the window. The snow is piled high against the glass, a wall of ice. I look at him. I strip off my ruined sweater. I strip off my leggings. I am in my underwear. I climb under the furs with him.
The heat coming off him is scorching, but his skin feels like ice to the touch. I wrap my body around his. I press my chest against his back. I tangle my legs with his. "I've got you," I whisper.
He instinctively seeks the warmth. He rolls over, burying his face in my neck, his heavy arm coming up to trap me against him. We are skin to skin. It is intimate, but not sexual. It is survival. It is the rawest form of contact two humans can have. I am using my life to keep his burning.
"Elodie," he sighs against my skin, his shivering starting to subside.
"I'm here, Alaric. I'm not going anywhere."
I stroke his hair. It is damp with sweat. I realize, lying there in the dark, that I have crossed a line. I washed his blood from my hands. I sewed his flesh. Now I am holding him while he burns. I am no longer the captive. I am the keeper.
He shifts, his nose brushing the curve of my breast. "Mine," he murmurs into the sleep. "My symphony."
"Yes," I whisper back into the darkness. "Yours."
I fall asleep to the sound of his ragged breathing and the storm trying to break in.
I wake to silence. The storm has passed. The light filtering into the room is blindingly white—sunlight reflecting off the snow. I am warm. Too warm. I try to move, but I am pinned.
Alaric is awake. He is lying on his back, his arm behind his head. I am draped over him, my head resting on his chest, my leg thrown over his hip. I push myself up, blinking against the light. "Alaric?"
He looks at me. The fever is gone. The glassiness has left his eyes, replaced by the sharp, terrifying intelligence of the Director. But there is something else there too. A softness. A vulnerability that hasn't fully hardened back over.
He lifts his bandaged hand, inspecting my work. "Ten stitches," he notes. "A simple interrupted suture pattern. A bit messy on the knots, but effective."
"I saved your life," I say, my voice raspy. "You're welcome."
He looks from his hand to me. He takes in my disheveled hair, the dark circles under my eyes, the fact that I am half-naked in his bed. He reaches out with his good hand and touches my cheek. "Why?" he asks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't you let me die?" He traces my lower lip with his thumb. "You know the code. You could have left. You could be halfway to Canada by now."
I look at him. I think about the answer. Because I'm scared. Because I have nowhere to go. Because you are the only one who sees me.
"Because," I whisper, leaning into his touch. "If you die, the music stops."
Alaric stares at me for a long moment. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face. "Then we keep playing."
He sits up, wincing slightly as his hand moves. The sheet falls to his waist. He is naked. He reaches to the bedside table and opens the drawer. He takes out a gun. Not the rifle. A smaller one. A compact SIG Sauer, matte black.
My breath catches. "Alaric?"
He checks the magazine. Full. He chambers a round. Click-clack. He holds it out to me. Handle first.
"Take it," he says.
I stare at the weapon. It looks heavy. Lethal. "Why?"
"Because I was weak," he says, his voice hard. "Because for twelve hours, I couldn't protect you. And that can never happen again." He presses the gun into my hand. It is cold and heavy. "Vance's partner is still out there. Sterling is playing games. The walls are not enough, Elodie."
He wraps my fingers around the grip. "You learned to ride the horse. You learned to play the duet. Now..." He looks me dead in the eye. "Now you learn to kill."
I look down at the gun in my hand. It feels... right. It feels like the missing piece of the puzzle. The final transformation. The girl who played piano is gone. The girl who holds the gun is here.
"Okay," I whisper. "Teach me."
Alaric leans forward and kisses me. It is a kiss of blood and iron. "Get dressed, petite," he growls against my mouth. "School is in session."