"The dinner is over," Alaric declares. He pulls me up from the chair so fast I almost trip in my heels. He drags me away from the table. "Walk," he commands in my ear.
We exit the Atrium. We leave the stunned silence of the vipers behind. Alaric marches me to the elevator. He punches the button with his bloody hand, leaving a smear of red on the metal.
The doors close. We are alone. The energy in the small box is nuclear. Alaric is vibrating with rage. His chest heaves. His jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek.
"Alaric, your hand," I whisper, reaching out. "You're bleeding."
He grabs my wrist before I can touch him. He pins me against the mirrored wall of the elevator. "Did you enjoy that?" he hisses.
"What?"
"Vance. Did you enjoy him looking at you? Did you enjoy him touching you?"
"No! I hated it!"
"You didn't pull away," he accuses. He presses his hips against mine, trapping me. "You let him touch you."
"I was frozen! You told me not to move!"
"I told you not to leave my side! I didn't tell you to let another man put his hands on what is mine!" He brings his wounded hand up. He smears the blood from his palm onto my cheek. It is warm. sticky. "You are mine, Elodie. Do you understand?" he roars. "You don't belong to the Board. You don't belong to the world. You belong tome."
He kisses me. It is violent. It tastes of wine and blood. He forces my mouth open, his tongue invading, reclaiming. I taste the copper of his blood. I smell the violence on him. And God help me, I kiss him back. My hands clutch his tuxedo jacket. My body arches into his. The fear of Vance—the fear of being sold—makes Alaric feel safe. Even his rage feels safe because it is directedatthe threat, not at me.
The elevator dings. The doors open on his floor. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air. He looks at me—lipstick smeared, his blood on my face, my eyes wild.
"Bedroom," he growls. "Now."
He doesn't drag me this time. I run ahead of him. Because for the first time, I am not running away from him. I am running to the only place where the other monsters can't reach me.
We burst into the suite. Alaric slams the door and locks it. Deadbolt. Chain. Key. He turns to me. He rips his bow tie off and throws it on the floor.
"Take it off," he commands, pointing to the dress. "Alaric—" "Take it off! I want to see you. I need to see that you are still here."
My hands shake as I reach for the zipper at my neck. I unzip it. The dress falls to the floor in a pool of black silk. I stand there in the black lace lingerie. The padlock choker gleams at my throat.
Alaric stares at me. His eyes are black holes. He walks toward me. He holds up his bleeding hand. "Lick it clean," he whispers.
I look at the cut on his palm. It is deep. It needs stitches. But the look in his eyes says that if I don't do this, if I don't accept this blood offering, he will tear the world apart.
I take his hand. I bring it to my lips. I taste the salt. The iron. The wine. I lick the wound.
Alaric groans—a low, animalistic sound that vibrates in his chest. His other hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. "Good girl," he pants. "My good, wicked girl."
He picks me up. He throws me onto the bed. He crawls over me, a dark shadow, a wounded wolf. "Tonight," he promises, his voice rough with need. "Tonight, we don't play structure. Tonight, we play chaos."
And as he descends upon me, blocking out the light, blocking out the memory of Vance and the Board and my father... I realize the terrifying truth. I don't want to be saved anymore. I want to be ruined.
CHAPTER 09
SYMPHONY OF RUIN
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:Dr. Graves' Private Suite (The Bed)
Track:Earned It– The Weeknd (Chamber Orchestra Version - Dark & Slow)
Sensory:The metallic taste of blood, the sound of tearing lace, the crushing weight of obsession.
