"Careful," he says, and even now his voice has that resonant quality he works so hard to cultivate. Rich and concerned and designed to make audiences trust him.
"Don't use your performance voice on me."
He actually looks hurt. "I'm not performing."
"You're always performing. It's what you do."
"What we do," he corrects. "Or did you forget you're a theater major too?"
The reminder of what I'm missing—classes, rehearsals, the show—makes my chest tight.
"Not anymore. Thanks to you."
"We didn't make you run—"
"You made staying impossible."
Before he can respond, Corvus enters with his tablet, fingers already swiping through data. He looks like he's about to present quarterly earnings instead of discussing my captivity.
"Good, you're conscious. We need to discuss your situation." He's already pulling up graphs, the scientist in him needing visual proof of everything.
"My situation is false imprisonment."
"Your situation is terminal rejection sickness." He turns the screen toward me—graphs, medical data, timelines all color-coded and annotated. "You have approximately thirty-six hours before complete organ failure."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, but I've done extensive research." He swipes to another screen, shows me academic papers he's somehow accessed. "Your symptoms follow documented patterns. Fever, seizures, organ dysfunction—"
"I know what's happening to my body."
"Then you know you're dying."
"I know."
The simple acceptance seems to throw him. His analytical mind expects fear, bargaining, desperation. Not this flat acknowledgment that doesn't compute with his data.
"We can help—"
"By keeping me prisoner?"
"By providing support through the rejection crisis." He's already making notes on his tablet, probably updating some spreadsheet tracking my symptoms.
"That's not how rejection works and you know it."
Dorian appears in the doorway like he was summoned by conflict, drawn by the sound of my voice raising. "The technical details don't matter. What matters is keeping you alive."
"What matters to you is keeping your toy from breaking."
Something dangerous flashes in those ice-blue eyes. "You're not a toy."
"Then what am I?"
"Mine."
The word hangs between us, possessive and absolute. Pure Dorian—no nuance, no negotiation, just brutal ownership.
"I'm not—"
