I am alone in the dark. Bound. Betrayed by my blood. And owned by the devil.
I close my eyes, and the darkness behind my lids is filled with the image of his silver eyes. And the terrifying realization that he is right. He is the monster. But he is the only one keeping the other monsters away.
CHAPTER 02
PORCELAIN AND STEEL
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Director’s Private Recovery Suite, Hallowed Halls.
Track:Glory Box– Portishead
Sensory:The smell of roasted coffee, the sting of returning circulation, the coldness of bathroom tile.
Mood:Humiliation & Resignation.
Time is a liquid construct in the dark. It pools and drips, stretching seconds into hours, distorting reality until the silence itself begins to have a sound—a high-pitched frequency that lives behind the ears.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here.
The storm outside has finally broken, leaving behind a heavy, oppressive stillness. My wrists burn. The silk ties, which Alaric called "padded," have become bands of fire, not because theyare too tight, but because my arms have been fixed in the same position for what feels like an eternity. My shoulders scream with a dull, aching throb that radiates down my spine.
But the physical pain is a distant second to the jagged shard of glass currently lodged in my chest.
A transorbital lobotomy.
The words float in the darkness, glowing like neon warning signs. I try to reject them. I try to push them away, to categorize them as a lie, a manipulation tactic by a psychopath trying to break me.
My father wouldn’t.He bought me my first Steinway.He sat in the front row of every recital, beaming.
But then, the other memories seep in, unbidden. The way his smile became brittle when I had my first panic attack at sixteen. The way he looked at me not with concern, but with annoyance, when the pressure of the conservatory made my hands shake. The hushed conversations with the family lawyers about "assets" and "liabilities."
“She’s becoming a liability, Charles.”
I had heard him say it on the phone a month ago. I thought he was talking about a failing investment property. I didn’t realize the property was me.
A sob builds in my throat, hot and choking, but I swallow it down. I refuse to cry in the dark. If Alaric is watching—and he said he would be listening—I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me break.
Click.
The sound of the lock turning is as loud as a gunshot.
I stiffen, my muscles seizing up. The door swings open, and light spills into the room—not the harsh fluorescent glare of the asylum corridors, but the soft, natural light of a grey morning.
Dr. Alaric Graves steps inside.
He looks disgustingly fresh. He has showered; his hair is damp and combed back with precision, emphasizing the severe, aristocratic lines of his face. He’s traded the black dress shirt for a charcoal cashmere sweater that looks soft enough to melt against the skin, and dark trousers. He looks like the cover of a magazine for billionaires who murder people in their spare time.
In his hands, he carries a silver tray. The smell hits me instantly, triggering a painful cramp in my empty stomach. Freshly ground coffee. Butter. Bacon. It is the smell of a normal Sunday morning, a domestic lie brought into this prison.
"Good morning,petite," he says. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of the morning roughness that plagues mortal men.
He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and walks toward the bed. He doesn't look at my face immediately. His eyes sweep over my body, checking the restraints, checking the rise and fall of my chest. It is a clinical scan.
"Did you sleep?" he asks, setting the tray down on the bedside table. The china clinks softly.
"Go to hell," I croak. My voice is weaker than I want it to be. My throat feels like I swallowed broken glass.
