Fear

37

I woke up wrong.

I woke up... warm.

Not the sour chill of concrete or the stiff leather biting at my wrists. Not the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, or the dripping of the tap. Not even the cold of the metal biting into my spine.

No. This was warmth. The kind that sank into your bones and enveloped you.

For one blissful second, my body didn't question it — I just shifted against the soft pillow under my head, the thick duvet weighing down my legs, the mattress cradling my thin body like I were an infant in a crib. My fingers rubbed sleep from my eyes without thinking. Like I was just in a dream.

And then I froze.

My eyes snapped open.

My wrists... were free. I was free.

My heart dropped. I shot upright too fast, head swimming with lingering sedation, breath snagging harshly in my throat, eyes wide.

This wasn't my cell.
This wasn't like the institution at all.

Dark wood panelling glowed beneath soft lamplight. A thick, patterned rug in deep red and gold stretched across the floor. Large mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, paintings of naked women staring down from the walls in gilded frames. A desk sat in the corner, a decanter of whiskey catching the light. And a rich smell of cologne, tobacco, and amber filled the room.

It was... homely. Luxurious. Human.
But wrong.

Then—

"Comfortable, princess?"

His unmistakable deep voice slid through me, smooth and teasing.

Tyler sat in a leather armchair across the room, one ankle hooked over his knee, his face resting against a hand as he watched me. The chair creaked when he shifted, the sound sharp in the heavy quiet. His smile was lazy, but his eyes pinned me where I sat.

My mouth was dry. "Where... Where am I?" I croaked with a wince, scratching my arm nervously.

He unfolded himself from the chair slowly, with a predator's ease. "In my room."

"What...? Why?"

"Because you lost control. Ran through the halls like a frightened animal. James said he had to strap you down, sedate you." He paused, tilting his head. "Why were you running, Emily?"

My nails dug into the duvet, clutching it to my chest. "I wasn't—I was trying to—"

"Protect Tom?" he cut in cruelly. "Don't make me laugh."

The air left my lungs. I shifted in the bed, bringing my legs to my chest.

"Yes, I know," he chuckled lowly. "So pathetic."

"Don't—" My voice cracked, but I couldn't argue. Not in this state.

Then he stood, stalking towards the bed, his steps slow, eyes dark. My pulse kicked hard against my ribs as he came closer.

"You think James cares about you?" His tone sharpened to a point. "He strapped you down like an animal. He pressed a needle into your neck and watched you fight it. That's not care, that's obedience to the system. To the staff, you are nothing more than a number. They couldn't give a fuck about you, Emily."

He reached the edge of the bed and stood beside me. His hand lifted and slowly brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. I flinched. His fingers lingered a moment too long, grazing my skin.

"But I care," he hissed through a whisper. I gulped. He continued. "More than I should. More than I want to. And God, I fucking hate it."

I held out on his touch for about five seconds, trembling, but I couldn't stay. I jerked away to the other side of the bed, fear clawing up my neck.

Something flickered across his face — anger, sharp and sudden — before he smoothed it over, his expression hardening.

"Ungrateful bitch," he spat. A harsh slap across my cheek sent my head snapping sideways. He lingered, eyes burning holes into me. And yet, just for a heartbeat, I swore I saw desperation there when I looked up, before it vanished under his mask of anger.

"I brought you into my room! I pulled you from that cold metal bed to someplace safer."

After a tense minute, he straightened, his tone cold again. "So get fucking used to it. You'll be staying here. This bed is ours now."

My stomach twisted so violently I could've vomited.

Sharing the bed.

Sharing the fucking bed. With him.

He turned from me, shoulders taut, and crossed to the dresser. Reached for the decanter, poured whiskey haphazardly into a glass, some of it spilling on the polished surface. He downed the whole measure in one grimacing gulp.

The glass slammed onto the wood hard enough to rattle. Hard enough to make my heart skip a beat.

"You don't know what you're doing to me, Emily." His voice was gravel now, the alcohol burning his throat, filling his voice with quiet rage. He stayed there, back to me, one hand braced against the dresser, the other curling into a fist. "What I'm becoming."

"I'm trying—" The words cracked, rough, breathless. "I'm trying my best not to lose control. But you—" He laughed once, sharp and bitter, running a hand down his face. "You keep pushing my fucking buttons!"

He swayed on his feet as if he were already drunk, unsteady, shoulders heaving, head bowed, holding himself together by force.

And I sat frozen in the bed, every inch of me tight, caught between dread and something else I couldn't name. The silence stretched until it pressed heavy against my chest.

Then he turned.

Tyler's eyes locked on mine like a blade point, sharp and burning, and before I could move he was back at the bed, fast, like something had finally snapped.

He leaned down, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping the headboard just beside my head. His breath was ragged, his nose inches from mine.

"You think you can keep running from me?" The stench of alcohol on his breath hit me, sharp and bitter. His voice was low, trembling with fury he could barely swallow. "You don't understand. I've tried. I've tried to keep distance, to keep control—"

His teeth clenched. For a moment it sounded like the words would tear him open. "But you..." His eyes dropped to my lips before he forced them back up, shaking his head.

"You're like a fucking magnet."

I pressed myself into the headboard, my heartbeat hammering so loud it drowned everything else out. His nearness was suffocating, overwhelming — his heat, his shadow caging me in. But beneath the terror, traitorous, there was a flicker of something else, something I hated myself for feeling.

For a second, I thought he might choke me. The thought ripped through me, terrifying.

But he pulled back sharply, like touching me would set him on fire. And maybe it would. He shoved away from the bed, turning his back so fast the motion rattled the nightstand, the lamp teetering on its base before going still.

His shoulders heaved once, twice. His fists clenched at his sides.

Then, with a growl of frustration, he strode across the room and yanked the door open.

The slam shook the walls.

And just like that, I was alone again, trembling against the headboard, the warmth of the bed suddenly feeling like a trap.

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