Sensory:The scent of lilies and roast duck, the clinking of heavy silverware, the suffocating tightness of a corset.
Mood:Predatory Anxiety & Performative Submission.
The water in the shower has turned lukewarm, but the fire in my blood refuses to go out.
I scrub my skin with the rough sponge until it burns, trying to erase the ghost of his touch. I scrub my inner thighs, my hips, the curve of my waist where his arm held me. I want to scour him off. I want to peel away the layers of skin that he has claimed until I am new again. Clean again.
But the sensation of his fingers inside me—that clinical, rhythmic invasion that felt like a surgical procedure designed to extract a scream—is branded into my neural pathways.So wet,he had said. The shame of it makes me gag. I press my forehead against the wet tile, gasping for air, waiting for the nausea to pass. My body betrayed me. It recognized the monster as a master before my mind even had a chance to protest.
"Elodie."
His voice cuts through the roar of the water and the chaos in my head. It comes from the other side of the frosted glass door. "Turn off the water. We are on a schedule."
I freeze. The command triggers that pavlovian spike of adrenaline.Obey or suffer.My hand shakes as I reach for the dial. I turn it. The silence that rushes back into the bathroom is heavy, pregnant with the threat of him.
"I’m coming out," I call out, my voice raspy.
"Towels are on the rack. The dress is on the vanity. You have twenty minutes."
I hear his footsteps retreat. Only then do I breathe. I step out, wrapping myself in the oversized white towel. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger. Her eyes are too wide, rimmed with red. Her lips are swollen. There is a bruise blooming on her neck, right where the muscle meets the shoulder—a dark purple mark in the shape of teeth.The mark of the wolf.
I look at the vanity. The black dress is there. It is not the modest wool dress from earlier. This is evening wear. It is black silk, floor-length, with long sleeves and a high neck that will cover the bruise. But the back... I lift it up. The back is completely open, plunging dangerously low, exposing the spine down to thesacrum. It is a contradiction. Demure from the front, vulnerable from the back. Just like me.
Beside the dress lies a set of black lace lingerie and a pair of stiletto heels that look more like weapons than footwear. I dress quickly, my movements jerky. The silk slides over my skin like cool water. The dress fits like a second skin, tailoring so precise it feels suffocating. I step into the heels, gaining three inches of height but losing my balance. I have to steady myself against the counter.
I apply the minimal makeup he left out—mascara, a blood-red lipstick. I pull my hair back into a severe chignon, exposing the sharp line of my jaw. I look like a widow. Or an assassin.
When I open the bathroom door, Alaric is waiting. He is standing by the window, checking his phone. He turns when he hears the latch click. The air leaves the room.
He is wearing a tuxedo. It is midnight blue, almost black, with satin lapels. The shirt is stark white, the bow tie perfectly knotted. He looks like every dark fantasy I’ve ever had and every nightmare I’ve ever feared. He looks like the devil on his way to a wedding. He scans me. The look is visceral. It starts at my toes and travels slowly, agonizingly, up to my eyes. He lingers on the open back of the dress as I turn to grab my clutch.
"Exquisite," he murmurs. The praise lands on my skin like a physical caress.
He crosses the room in three strides. He stands behind me, his chest brushing my exposed back. The heat of him is instantaneous. "You covered the mark," he notes, his fingers grazing the high collar of the dress at my nape.
"I thought you wanted me presentable," I whisper, staring at our reflection in the dark window glass.
"I do. Tonight, you are not a patient, Elodie. Tonight, you are a testament to my success." He leans down, his lips hovering over my ear. "We are dining with the Board of Directors. These are the men who fund Hallowed Halls. They are powerful. They are wealthy. And they are vipers."
"Why am I going?"
"Because they heard rumors that I acquired a new... artifact. And they want to see if the investment is sound." His hand slides around my waist, pulling me back against him. His thumb presses into my stomach, right over my navel. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not eat until I eat. And you will not, under any circumstances, leave my side. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." He turns me around. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvet choker. It is black ribbon, with a small silver pendant. He fastens it around my neck. It sits tight against my throat. I look down. The pendant is a tiny silver padlock.
"There," he says, adjusting it. "Now everyone knows who holds the key." He offers me his arm. "Shall we?"
The descent to the Atrium is a blur of polished marble and rising panic. We take the elevator this time. The mirrored box reflects us from every angle—the dark king and his captive queen. Alaric’s grip on my arm is firm, possessive. He radiates a cold, lethal confidence that makes the air feel thin.
When the doors open on the ground floor, the sound hits me first. Low chatter. The clinking of crystal. String quartet music—Mozart, played with technical proficiency but zero soul. The smell of roasted duck and expensive perfume is overwhelming.
We walk into the Atrium. The space has been transformed. The therapy furniture is gone, replaced by a long banquet table set for twenty. The fireplace is roaring. Waiters in white gloves move like ghosts through the room.
The guests are already there. Men in tuxedos, holding tumblers of scotch. Women in gowns that cost more than my parents' house, their faces pulled tight by surgery and boredom. When Alaric enters, the room goes silent. It is the silence of the jungle when the apex predator arrives.
"Dr. Graves," a voice booms.
