Alaric closes the folder with a softthud. He places the pen on the side table, next to a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. "You are in my private quarters," he says, standing up.
He moves with that same predatory grace I saw in the woods. Silent. Inevitable. He crosses the room and stops at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. This isn't a medical observation. This is ownership.
"Why?" I rasp, tugging uselessly at the silk binding my left wrist. "Put me back in the ward. Put me in the quiet room. I don’t want to be here."
"The ward is for patients who follow the rules," he replies, his voice cool and detached. He walks around to the side of the bed, invading my personal space. The scent of him—soap, scotch, andthat crisp, clean smell of power—fills my lungs, drowning out the antiseptic smell of the room. "The quiet room is for patients who need time to reflect. But you, Elodie... you require a morehands-onapproach."
He reaches out. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, expecting a blow. Expecting pain. But he just brushes a stray lock of hair off my forehead. His fingers are cool, dry, and terrifyingly gentle.
"Open your eyes," he commands. It’s not a shout. It’s barely a whisper. But the authority in it triggers an instinct deep in my brain stem.Obey or suffer.
I open them. I glare at him with every ounce of hatred I can muster, trying to burn a hole through his skull. "You drugged me."
"I sedated you," he corrects, his thumb tracing the line of my eyebrow. "There is a difference. You were hysterical. You were a danger to yourself. Look at you."
He gestures to my body with a nod of his head. I look down. And shame, hot and blistering, floods my system.
I am not wearing the torn, muddy nightgown. I am wearing one of his shirts. It’s a white button-down, crisp and oversized, unbuttoned at the collar. It smells like him. It covers me, but the implication is clear. Someone took my wet clothes off. Someone cleaned the mud from my skin. Someone dressed me in this.
"Who changed me?" I whisper, though I already know the answer. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Alaric smiles. It’s a small, tight thing that doesn't reach his eyes. "My staff is excellent, Elodie, but for a case as...special... as yours, I prefer to handle the intake personally."
"You touched me," I hiss, pulling at the restraints again, violent enough that the bed frame rattles. "You stripped me while I was unconscious. That’s assault. That’s—"
"That iscare," he interrupts, his voice hardening. The veneer of the polite doctor slips, revealing the monster underneath. He leans over me, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of my head, trapping me. "You were covered in filth. You were hypothermic. I washed the mud from your legs. I checked you for lacerations. I warmed you up."
His face is inches from mine. I can see the flecks of silver in his irises. I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. "You have a scratch on your left thigh," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to where the sheet covers my legs. "And bruising on your soles. You should have worn shoes,petite."
"Don't call me that."
"I'll call you whatever I like," he says softly. "I hold the pen, Elodie. I write the diagnosis. And right now, the diagnosis is 'Severe ODD'—Oppositional Defiant Disorder."
He pushes off the mattress and stands up straight, adjusting his cuffs. The distance should be a relief, but it only makes me feel colder.
"I need water," I say, changing tactics. My throat feels like parchment paper.
Alaric watches me for a moment, assessing. Then he turns to the bedside table. He pours a glass of water from a crystal carafe. The condensation beads on the glass, promising relief. He brings it to me.
I try to reach for it, but the silk restraints catch my wrists. I can’t lift my hands more than a few inches. I look at the glass. I look at him. He knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
"Please," I say, the word tasting like ash. "Untie me."
"No," he answers simply. "Not yet. You haven't earned it."
He holds the glass out, but out of my reach. "If you want to drink, I will help you."
"I'm not an invalid."
"No, you are a flight risk. And until I am satisfied that you won't try to claw my eyes out or jump out of the window, you will stay secured." He brings the glass closer to my lips. "Drink."
It’s a humiliation ritual. I know it. He wants me to be dependent. He wants me to accept that my basic survival needs—hydration, warmth, safety—come from his hand and his hand alone. But my body betrays my pride. My thirst is a screaming entity.
I part my lips. Alaric tilts the glass. The water is cool, crisp, and heavenly. I drink greedily, some of it spilling down my chin and onto the collar of his shirt that I’m wearing. He doesn't pull away. He watches the water trail down my neck, his eyes darkening. When I’m finished, he pulls the glass away and sets it down. Then, with his thumb, he wipes the stray drop from my chin.
He doesn't pull his hand away. He lets his thumb rest on my lower lip, pressing down slightly, forcing my mouth to stay slightly open. "Good girl," he praises.
The praise makes my skin crawl, but it also sends a confusing jolt of warmth through my belly.Stockholm Syndrome,my rational mind screams.It’s starting already.
