One of my hearing aids.
Fuck.
My panic is sharp and sudden, piercing deep in my gut. I scramble quickly across the floor and snatch it up before she can get a good look.
I know she’s seen it when her eyes widen, and her lips form a circle as she inhales sharply. I tuck the hearing aid back in place, hiding it beneath my hair as if nothing happened, but I feel the shift of tension in the room.
She knows now.
And that’s a problem.
It’s the thing I’ve kept hidden from everyone who is not family because, in this world, weakness is something people will exploit.
That people have exploited.
And I can’t let her, letanyone, have ammunition against me.
Glancing up at her, I see guilt flash across her face for the first time since our unlikely meeting. I don’t care about that right now. My mind is racing at what this means, and my heart pounds even though my expression stays neutral. Controlled.
Too controlled, maybe, but I can’t afford to lose my face in front of her now too. She steps toward me as though she wantsto help or maybe say something. But when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is another whistle.
I raise my hand to stop her. “Pigeon.”
She blinks, the whistle turning into a long exhale and then a soft, “I’m sorry.”
Instead of responding, I stand and brush off the dust, keeping my expression as unreadable as I can manage. Inside, everything feels off-balance and uneasy. I hadn’t expected this. Not the shove, not the fall, and certainly not the look on her face right now.
There’s real remorse in her eyes.
She’s more than simply not okay. It’s not surprise or regret. It’s deeper, almost like fear, as if she’s genuinely shaken by what just happened. And it makes no sense to me. Why would she care that I fell on my ass?
“Are you hurt?” she asks in a whisper, and the last wall falls. It’s written all over her face.
She’s afraid of the idea of someone getting hurt because of her actions.
I swallow the urge to ask why that is and lie, “I’m fine.”
I feel exposed in a way I’m not used to, a way I hate. The imbalance between us is palpable now. She doesn’t know why it matters, but I do. If she talks, if she uses it against me…
No. She won’t get that chance.
I step toward her, assessing her. She tries not to flinch under my scrutiny, but it’s a visible effort. She’s rattled too. And then something clicks in my mind, and I reach out to grab her chin. My fingers are firm, but I’m careful not to cause pain as I tilt her head up, making her look at me. She freezes, her confusion obvious, and I lean in. Close. Closer than before. Close enough that I can smell her breath.
Whiskey.
“You’re tipsy,” I accuse flatly, the calm in my voice masking my disappointment. “Even though I told you to come sober.” Her eyes widen, and I can see the realization hit. She knows she messed up.
She opens her mouth, and I can practically see her scrambling for an excuse. She probably wishes she could only whistle now, but it doesn’t matter.
I straighten my posture as I release her chin but keep my gaze locked on hers. “I need you sober when you’re working with us. I don’t have time for slip-ups, and neither do you.”
Before she can say a word in protest, I reach for her wrist. My other hand lifts to her forehead, the same as before.
“Sleep,”I murmur, and like a puppet, she falls under again. “Listen carefully. You will never be able to tell anyone what you just saw. And from now on, you won’t be able to drink alcohol as long as you work for us. You’ll feel sick if you even try. I need you sober,always.”
Her body tenses as her mind feebly tries to resist, but it’s no use. My control over her is absolute. At least, that’s what I want her to believe.
The truth is, hypnosis isn’t some magic spell. It’s neither foolproof nor permanent. You can’t plant a command in someone’s mind and expect it to hold for weeks. People use hypnosis as therapy to help them quit smoking, stop drinking, or break other habits. Like any therapy, it takes effort, repetition, and the person’s willingness to make it stick.
