Though she was horrified by the prospect of returning to the barn, the fact that he expected her to get up at dawn the day after a full moon did not surprise her. Harrod was cut from the very same cruel cloth as her father. Her pain didn’t matter to him any more than it mattered to the esteemed Doctor Wyeth. She was athing,not a person.
What did surprise her, however, was his disregard for polite boundaries.
While Harrod had never treated her with anything other than cool detachment, he had paid as close attention to social boundaries as he did the parameters of an experiment. He did not linger in rooms alone with her. He did not touch her when unclothed examinations were deemed necessary. He used her proper title and opened doors for her when needed. On the surface, he treated her as he might treat any young woman of his acquaintance.
At least, heusedto.
A great many unhappy changes had begun to metastasize since their arrival in the homestead, and one of those was the gradual deterioration of Harrod’s respect for the invisible lines Josephine counted on to keep herself safe.
When she found her voice, it was rough with discomfort and lack of sleep. “Excuse me, Doctor Pierce. I would greatly appreciate it if you would not enter my room before knocking. I haven’t dressed—”
“It is nothing I haven’t seen,” he coolly replied, dark eyes flicking to where her chemise had fallen off of one shoulder during her fitful night.
Josephine felt the monster that dwelled in her snap at its tight leash. It did not like the way Harrod looked at her, nor how he lingered in her doorway. It disliked his scent, the very energy he carried, and it most especially did not like the way he stepped into her private space as if he had all the right to.
She did not always understand what thethingin her tried to tell her, but this message was simple enough:danger.
Swallowing around the lump of cold fear in her throat, she did her best to assume the neutral expression that pleased the men in her life best. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the sheen of cold sweat on her face, nor the way she nearly vibrated with overlapping tremors. “Ah, yes, that is true. Forgive me. If you would give me a moment, I can put a dress on and follow—”
“A minute, Miss Wyeth,” he told her. “Any longer and I will assume you need assistance. Doctor Wyeth won’t be kept waiting.”
Shedidneed assistance, but she would never ask for it. “A minute, then. I’ll be ready.”
Josephine didn’t breathe until the heavy, sigil reinforced lock on her bedroom door latched. Normally she detested the sound almost as much as she hated the slashing clawmarks on the wood around it, but at that moment, any reprieve from Harrod’s cold gaze was welcome.
It was a battle to get out of bed.
The air in her room was always too cold for her, and on the mornings after a full moon, it felt particularly biting. Every joint ached. Her skin was so sensitive that the moisture in the air and the terrible scrape of her chemise was agony. Her fingertips were clumsy as she struggled to pull on her stockings, tie her bloomers, and adjust the fit of her corset.
At least she was not dressing up for one of the few social engagements her mother felt pressured into bringing her to before her father’s great success. Those required layers of ruffled fabric, padding, a crinoline, and cumbersome sleeves. Josephine could hardly manage her linen blouse, long wool skirt, and shawl.
There was hardly the time, nor the necessity, to looknice,but still, she hobbled over to her wash basin to quickly scrub her face and slick back her long hair. The cold water brought some color to her pallid skin, at least.
By the time Harrod opened her door once more, Josephine was breathing hard but moderately presentable. Her hair was loose, but she could braid it as they walked. She wouldn’t have bothered, but a single stray hair in her father’s lab would send him into a rage. Even knowing their destination was the barn, the habits of a lifetime were not to be disregarded.
Grabbing an old ribbon from a coil on her nightstand, Josephine carefully averted her eyes from Harrod’s pinched expression. His lips were pursed, but his eyes, cold and flat, roved over her figure in a way that raised her hackles. The beast snarled in the back of her mind. Despite her father’s great hope, she did not think it was particularly inclined toward violence. But backed into a corner, threatened by this man who had begun to look at her differently, Josephine feared it might finally slip its leash.
Harrod made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. Josephine jumped, her nerves shot, and hurried to shove her feet in her unlaced boots.
“I’m ready.” She hugged her shawl around her shoulders. It would take work to keep from tripping on her laces, but she didn’t dare make him wait a moment longer. The gods knew how he would take his revenge on her if the esteemed Doctor Wyeth upbraided him for tardiness.
“Away, then,” he commanded, gesturing sharply toward the door.
She kept her head down as he led her down the dark, partially subterranean hallway and into the main living space of the homestead. Their modern furnishings looked ridiculous in the circular orcish home, with its stone walls and rugged beams, but no one asked her if she would prefer lacquered curios and fainting couches to comfortable orcish lounges and thick cushions.
Not that she had ever experienced those luxuries herself, of course, but she’d spent most of her life reading about the world she would never be allowed to see. Books on architecture were of particular interest, as they tended to come with illustrations she could study and replicate in the safety of her room.
That was how she knew that their home was of traditional northern orcish design, though she still had no clue where exactly it was located or who it truly belonged to.
Occasionally, she dared to ask a question, but she did not make a habit of it. Her father was not predisposed to explaining himself to anyone, let alone her, so it was much better use of her limited energy to glean her answers through other means.
Josephine tugged her shawl up to cover her chilled nose as Harrod led her up the steps and out the door. The wind was biting, and it defied her attempts to gather her hair into a braid as they hurried across the yard to the hulking, sunken structure of the barn.
Giving up, she simply bound the length with the ribbon at the base of her head and tucked the tail beneath her shawl. Hopefully her father wouldn’t notice.
Perhaps he wouldn’t care if he did. They were going to the barn, after all. Not his lab, that sacred space where he gleefully ruined lives again and again. The barn was kept in rigidly sanitized condition, but a stray hair did not risk years of work in there.
Her stomach turned over as they neared the large double doors. They were painted a cheerful red, and the turf roof of the structure was speckled with bright wildflowers. The stone walls that disappeared into the ground were dusted with velvety moss. Were it serving its intended purpose, it would have been homey. It might have even been beautiful.
