To be fair, I understood why.
Their concerns were valid.
That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
And it definitely didn’t help that each time I passed Elior’s room, fucking Patel was there. Sitting in the chair I should’ve been in, speaking to him softly, adjusting the lights, bringing him water.
I told myself it was fine.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
I told myself that Patel was temporary.
But every time I saw Elior turn his head toward the door when Patel entered—every time I saw relief soften his face—I felt something hot and ugly coil tight in my chest.
In a way, Iwasgrateful for Patel—in a very, very,verysmall way.
After all, he was helping to take care of Elior in my involuntary absence. Even as jealous as I was, I didn’t want Elior to be miserable.
That being said, he wasn’t exactlynotmiserable, even with Patel diligently doting on him. And when the interviews and evaluations started, it only got worse.
First, there was the psychologist. He stayed for hours at a time. I’d see Elior afterward sometimes, his eyes glassy, exhausted in a way sleep didn’t fix.
He started being silent during our visits, just clinging to my sleeve, afraid and waiting for the moment he knew was coming, when I would be made to leave.
A few days in, Patel had pulled me aside and informed me that Elior had begun wetting the bed.
Even with that—a crystal clear fucking sign that they should pull back from their poking and prodding—the Bureau began sending in agents to “interview” him.
They asked him about the Covenant. About Malachi. About routines, punishments, and hierarchy. They asked aboutmoney and disappearances. They asked him questions about things he didn’t even understand. Questions about potential burial sites, if he’d ever seen his father or the Inner Circle doing anything suspicious. Questions that made his head spin and his stomach turn.
Questions that made him question himself, his reality, and his role in it all.
And then—inevitably—they asked about me.
“How did you meet Jace?”
“What did he tell you about himself?”
“Did he ever ask you to keep secrets?”
“Did he make you feel special?”
“Did he isolate you from others?”
“Did he do anything to you against your will?”
I knew exactly what they were fishing for—and I knew exactly how dangerous Elior’s answers could be. Not because he’d accuse me. God, no. But because he loved me. Because he’d answer honestly, without understanding how his honesty could be twisted.
“He made me feel safe”could become dependency.
“He said he’d take care of me”could become coercion.
And Lord only knew what they’d make of our intimacy, although I was hedging my bets on Elior being too embarrassed and too modest to ever utter a word about what we’d done. If I were wrong, well, simply put—I’d be fucked.
His words had the power to either save me or condemn me.
I hated that they’d put him in that position.
