He straightens up. "Sit up."
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to hide. Alaric strips off the gloves. Thesnapof the latex coming off is the best sound I’ve heard all day. He throws them in the biohazard bin.
"Physically, you are structurally sound," he concludes, writing something in a file on the counter. "Underweight, dehydrated, and exhausted. But sound."
He turns to me. He isn't wearing the gloves anymore. His hands are bare. "But psychologically..." He walks back to me. He places his bare hands on my bare knees. The skin-to-skin contact is shocking. His hands are warm, rougher than the gloves.
"You have a tremor," he says. I look at my hands. They are resting on my knees, and they are indeed shaking. A fine, constant vibration. "It’s... it's the cold," I lie.
"It’s not the cold," he says. "It’s the withdrawal." "I'm not on drugs." "Not drugs. Adrenaline. Perfectionism. Approval." He slides his hands up my thighs, just an inch. "You are withdrawing from the need to be perfect for them."
He leans in, his face level with mine. "Show me your hands."
I hold them out. He takes them in his. His hands dwarf mine. He turns them over, inspecting the palms, the fingers. "Pianist's hands," he murmurs. "Long fingers. Strong. Callused tips." He traces the callus on my left pinky with his thumb. The sensation sends a shiver straight down my spine.
"These hands..." he whispers. "They are worth millions, aren't they? Insured?" "They were," I say. "I don't know anymore."
"I am your insurance now." He brings my hands to his mouth. For a second, I think he is going to kiss them. My heart hammers against my ribs. But he doesn't. He opens his mouth and gently, terrifyingly, bites the fleshy part of my palm below the thumb.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a mark. He bites down hard enough to hurt, hard enough to leave a white indentation that turns red as soon as he releases it. I gasp, trying to pull away, but he holds me fast.
He looks at the mark he made. "There," he says, his voice thick. "Now you are stamped."
He releases my hands. "Get dressed."
He turns his back on me and walks to the counter, picking up a vial of clear liquid and a syringe. "Get dressed, Elodie. We have one more injection before you can rest."
I scramble off the table, grabbing the grey dress. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pull it on. I feel branded. The spot on my palm throbs where his teeth sank in. It wasn't sexual. It was primal. It was a wolf testing the meat.
I zip the dress up, feeling suffocated by the wool. "What is that?" I ask, pointing to the syringe he is filling. "I don't want any more sedatives."
"It’s not a sedative," Alaric says, tapping the side of the syringe to clear the air bubbles. A tiny droplet of liquid beads at the tip of the needle. "It is a vitamin complex. B12, Iron, Magnesium. To combat the malnutrition and the tremor."
He turns to me. "Arm."
I hold out my arm. I am too tired to fight. He rolls up the sleeve of the wool dress. He swabs the skin with alcohol. "Small pinch."
He slides the needle in. Ideally, I shouldn't feel it, but I feel everything he does. I feel the cool liquid entering my muscle. He withdraws the needle and presses a cotton ball to the spot. "Hold this."
I hold it. Alaric disposes of the needle. He looks at me, his eyes clear and terrifyingly sane.
"You did well," he says. "You didn't cry. You didn't beg." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something. It’s a small, black object. He holds it out to me.
I look at it. It’s an MP3 player. Old school. With a pair of wired headphones.
"What is this?"
"I told you," he says. "Music is a reward for compliance. You were compliant during the exam." He places it in my hand. "It is not a piano. But it will drown out the silence."
I stare at the device. It feels heavy in my hand. A lifeline. "Thank you," I whisper. The words taste like vinegar, but I say them.
"Don't thank me yet," Alaric says, opening the door. "The playlist is curated. By me." He smiles, a sharp, dangerous thing. "I want you to listen to whatIthink you sound like."
He gestures to the hallway. "Go back to the room, Elodie. Lock the door from the inside. I have rounds to do."
I walk out into the hallway, clutching the MP3 player to my chest like a shield. I don't look back. But I can feel his eyes on me, burning into my back, all the way until I turn the corner.
I look down at my palm. The red mark of his teeth is still there. Fading, but visible.Skin and bone,I think. He checked my skin. He checked my bones. And then he put his mark on me so everyone would know who owns the wreckage.
