I am not just sleeping in his bed. I am clinging to him like a limpet.
Panic, hot and sharp, spikes in my chest. I try to pull back, to extricate myself from the humiliating intimacy of the position, but the arm around my waist tightens instantly. He isn't asleep. He hasn't been asleep for a long time.
"Don't," Alaric’s voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating directly into my ear. It is rough with morning grit, deep and terrifyingly possessive. "Stay."
"I... I need to get up," I stammer, my voice small. "I invaded your space. I'm sorry."
"You didn't invade," he corrects, his hand moving up my spine, tracing the vertebrae one by one through the thin silk of the nightgown. "You gravitated. It’s physics, Elodie. Mass attracts mass. And I have a lot of gravity."
He shifts, rolling onto his side so that we are face to face. The morning light filtering through the heavy curtains paints him in shades of grey and gold. He looks devastating. His hair is messed up, a dark lock falling over his forehead, softening the severe lines of his face. Stubble shadows his jaw. If I didn't know he was a psychopath who bugged my house for eight months, I might think he was beautiful.
"Did you sleep?" he asks. His eyes scan my face, looking for shadows, for signs of fatigue.
"Yes," I admit, the word tasting like betrayal. How could I sleep? How could my body shut down and recharge in the lair of the beast?
"Good." He reaches out and brushes his thumb over my lower lip. The sensation is electric. My breath hitches. "No nightmares?"
"No."
"See?" He smiles, a slow, lazy curving of his lips. "I told you. The monsters don't come when I'm here. They're afraid of me too."
He throws the duvet back and sits up, the movement fluid and powerful. The black t-shirt stretches across his back muscles as he stretches. "Up," he commands, the lazy lover vanishing, replaced instantly by the Director. "Routine starts now. Shower. Dress. Breakfast. We have a 9:00 AM session."
I scramble to the other side of the bed, putting distance between us. "Session? What kind of session?"
Alaric stands up and walks to the bathroom. He pauses at the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. "Deconstruction,petite. We’ve cleared the site. Now we start digging the foundation."
The routine is a weapon. I realize this within the first hour.
Alaric doesn't use chains or gags to control me. He uses minutes. He uses order. I am allowed exactly fifteen minutes to shower. I am presented with exactly two options for clothing: a black turtleneck dress or a navy wool skirt and blouse. I choose the black dress. It feels like mourning. I am given breakfast—oatmeal with berries and black coffee—and I am expected to finish it. He doesn't force-feed me today. He just watches. He reads his newspaper (The Financial Times, ironically), but every time I pause, every time I put the spoon down, his eyes flick over the paper, silent and expectant. I eat.
At 8:55 AM, we leave the suite. The walk through the corridors is different today. The asylum is awake. We pass orderlies pushing carts. We pass patients walking with chaperones. Everyone stops. Everyone nods. "Dr. Graves." "Good morning, Director."
He ignores them all. He walks with his hand firmly planted on the small of my back, guiding me, claiming me. I feel the heat of his palm branding me through the fabric. I try to walk independently, but he steers me with subtle pressure. Left. Right. Stop. I am a puppet, and he is pulling the strings with terrifying subtlety.
We don't go to the Music Room. We go to the East Wing. The door we stop at is markedOBSERVATION 3.
"Inside," he says, opening the door for me.
The room is small, dark, and smells of ozone. One wall is entirely glass. It’s a one-way mirror. On the other side is a brightly lit therapy room. There are two chairs. In one chair sits a young man. He looks maybe twenty-five. He is rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. He looks terrified.
"Who is that?" I ask, stepping closer to the glass.
"That is Julian," Alaric says, standing behind me. "Julian is a liar."
"What?"
"Julian was admitted for pathological gambling and violent outbursts. His family pays a premium for 'behavioralrealignment'. But Julian thinks he is smarter than the system. He thinks if he says the right words, if he feigns remorse, we will sign his release papers."
Alaric leans forward, his breath ghosting over my ear. "Watch."
A door opens in the room on the other side of the glass. A doctor walks in. It’s not Alaric. It’s a woman. Severe, blonde, wearing a white coat. Dr. Sterling.
"Good morning, Julian," she says.
"I'm better," Julian blurts out immediately. He stops rocking. He smiles—a wide, brittle, fake thing. "I feel great, Dr. Sterling. Really. I slept well. I haven't thought about the casino in days. I think I'm ready for the step-down unit."
Alaric chuckles beside me. It’s a dark, dry sound. "See?" he whispers. "He is performing. He is reciting the script he thinks we want to hear."
