The name on her lips makes me want to break things.
"No," I say quietly. "Not Ben."
Her eyes open slightly, recognize me, close again. "I hate you."
"I know."
"I'm going to die hating you."
"No," I say, brushing hair from her fevered face. "You're not going to die at all."
She doesn't respond, already pulled back under by exhaustion and sickness. But her hand moves slightly, fingers curling like she's holding something that isn't there.
In the morning, I'll have Corvus find out everything about this Ben. About the theater program. About the life she was building. Not because I care, but because I need to know what she thinks she's lost.
What I took from her.
What I'll have to replace to make her stop wanting to die.
ten
Vespera
Sunlightwakesme.Thatand the smell of food that makes my stomach cramp with hunger I've been ignoring for days.
The fever broke sometime in the night. I feel marginally human—weak, angry, but thinking clearly for the first time since the seizure. The IV is still in my arm, the monitors still beeping, but I can move without the room spinning.
Time to figure out exactly how fucked I am.
The closet first. I need to see what Dorian's sick fantasy looks like.
It's worse than expected. Designer clothes that cost more than Dad makes in a month. Lingerie that makes my skin crawl knowing he picked it out, imagined me wearing it. Everything fits perfectly. He's been planning this.
The clothes smell like Alpha pheromones. Subtle but there. He marked everything with his scent like a dog pissing on territory.
I pull on jeans and the least offensive shirt I can find. Even these probably cost hundreds. The fabric feels like wealth I'll never have.
A knock. Oakley enters without waiting for permission, carrying a tray with the kind of careful balance he uses on stage—years of movement training showing in how he doesn't spill a drop.
"You're up." He sounds relieved, that warm performer's voice he uses to put people at ease. "Corvus wants to check your vitals."
"Corvus can fuck off."
"He's trying to help."
"He's trying to control. There's a difference."
Oakley sets the tray down: toast, fruit, pills I don't recognize. Invalid food for their invalid prisoner.
"You need to eat."
"What I need is to leave."
"You can barely stand."
"Watch me."
I push myself up, legs shaking but holding. I make it three steps before the dizziness hits. Oakley catches my arm with theatrical grace—because of course, he's a theater major too. We took movement classes together freshman year before everything went to hell.
