He lifts me up. He carries me out of the dead girl's room. He kicks the door shut. He carries me to the master bedroom. He throws me on the bed.
"You looked for a ghost," he growls, climbing over me. "Now you have to live with the man."
He kisses me. And this time, it tastes like a lie. But it’s a sweet lie. And I swallow it whole.
Because the snow is falling outside. And the glass walls are closing in. And I have nowhere else to go.
CHAPTER 14
FEVER DREAMS
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Glass House (Master Bedroom / Living Area)
Track:I Found– Amber Run (Acoustic Version)
Sensory:The smell of burning wood and rotting flesh, the howling of the blizzard, the searing heat of feverish skin.
Mood:Forced Intimacy & Role Reversal.
The snow has been falling for three days.
It is not the gentle, picturesque snow of a Christmas card. It is a white curtain of violence, burying the world, erasing the horizon, and pressing against the glass walls of our sanctuary until I feel like we are living inside a submerged diving bell. We are trapped. The helicopter is grounded, a shapeless mound of white on the landing pad. The solar panels are likely covered, forcing the generator to hum its low, vibrating song in the basement.
And Alaric is dying.
He won't admit it. Of course he won't. He is the Director. He is the Apex Predator. Predators do not get sick; they just get angry. For the last forty-eight hours, he has been pacing the glass cage like a wounded tiger. He snaps at me if I ask if he’s hungry. He checks the security monitors obsessively, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He wears his leather jacket even inside the house, shivering when he thinks I’m not looking.
But he can't hide the smell. It’s a sickly, sweet rot that cuts through the scent of the woodsmoke and his expensive scotch. It hangs in the air, cloying and heavy. I know what it is. It’s the hand. The hand he sliced open on the wine glass at the dinner. The hand I licked clean. The hand he refused to stitch up because he was too busy kidnapping me.
"Alaric," I say. My voice sounds too loud in the silent house.
He is standing by the north window, staring out into the whiteout with the rifle in his good hand. His bad hand—the right one—is shoved deep into his jacket pocket. He doesn't turn. "Go back to bed, Elodie. It’s cold."
"You're sweating," I counter, walking toward him. I am barefoot, wearing one of his cashmere sweaters that falls to my knees. "And you’ve been standing there for two hours. There’s nothing to see. The sensors are clear."
"The sensors can fail," he rasps. His voice is wrecked—gravel grinding on glass. "Vance’s partner... the mole... they are resourceful. They could use the storm as cover."
I reach him. I can feel the heat radiating off him from a foot away. He is a furnace. "Let me see your hand."
He flinches away from me, turning his shoulder to block my path. "It’s fine."
"It’s not fine. I can smell it, Alaric."
He freezes. He turns slowly to look at me. His face is a mask of grey exhaustion. Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes, making the silver irises look eerily bright, almost manic. Sweat beads on his forehead, matting his dark hair. He looks like a ghost haunting his own house.
"You smell fear," he tries to joke, but the smirk falters.
"I smell infection," I say, stepping into his space. I am not afraid of him right now. The dynamic has shifted. Gravity has tilted. "Show me."
"No."
"Show me, or I walk out that door into the storm and let the wolves eat me."
It’s a bluff. We both know it. But his paranoia is so high, his fever-brain so rattled, that he buys it. Fear flashes in his eyes—the fear of losing the possession. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket.
It is wrapped in a makeshift bandage—a strip of torn black t-shirt. The fabric is soaked through with dark, crusty fluids. I reach out and gently,gently, take his wrist. His skin is burning hot. I unwrap the cloth.
