I woke in pieces. The first thing I registered was the bed. Too soft. Too clean. It cradled me like a secret, like I belonged there, and it made my skin crawl. The contrast was a slap in the face.
This wasn't the cold tile. This wasn't the table slamming into my back or his hand crushing my throat. This was... luxury. Sheets smooth as silk, a pillow soft enough to swallow my head whole, and air that smelled like nothing—no blood, no salt, no fear. Just sterile calm. It made me sick.
My throat... God, my throat. It burned like someone had stripped it raw with sandpaper and salt. Every breath scraped against it like a dull blade, every swallow a scream I didn't have the strength to let out. His hands. The fish. The choking. His voice, calm like ice water poured down the spine. My body rejecting everything it had been forced to take in. My own pulse hammering louder than thought. Fingers down my throat, a cold metal edge pressed to my ribs, someone muttering medical orders too fast to follow. Vomit. Bile. Darkness again.
I shifted, groaning as fire licked through my muscles. Everything hurt. My body felt wrong. Violated. Like it wasn't entirely mine anymore. Weakness sank into my limbs like a sedative, but I forced my eyes to open. The room was dim. Muted sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that moved with the faintest breeze from an open window. A glass of water sat on the nightstand. Untouched. Condensation clung to the sides like it had been sitting there for hours.
Waiting for me.
My head turned, slow, like dragging it through mud. And then I saw him. Standing in the doorway like he'd been waiting. Like this was just the next scene in his little performance and I was the main act crawling back to consciousness. The light behind him haloed his silhouette, but I didn't need to see his face to feel the weight of his gaze. He didn't speak. Just watched.
"You're awake," he said. Just like that. Like I'd taken a nap.
I stared at him, lips parting, my voice emerging as a cracked whisper.
"You…"
That's all I could manage. Not a question. Not even a full accusation. Just that one syllable loaded with all the horror and rage clawing inside me.
He moved toward me, unhurried. Calm, like he had all the time in the world. He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at me like I was a puzzle missing a piece.
"I had them pump your stomach. You were going into anaphylaxis."
His voice was maddening. Not regretful. Not proud. Just factual. Like he was telling me it might rain tomorrow.
"No shit, you did that to me." Forcing myself to sit up straighter, as I glared at him.
"Yes." No hesitation. "I did."
I stared at him, my body aching, trembling, lungs still struggling to keep up. And he just stood there, casual in his ruin. But I stabbed him first. I wanted to study him. And maybe… that's why he did it. A test for a test. Poison for a blade. We weren't playing victim and monster anymore. We were something worse. Something mutual. His voice is soft, measured.
"I wasn't finished with you," he said after a pause. "So I kept you alive."
I wanted to lunge at him, to scream, to tear his face open with my nails. But I couldn't even sit up. My body was a traitor, limp and sluggish under the weight of the drugs or the trauma.
He turned to leave. Paused at the door. "Rest," he said, without turning around. "You'll need your strength."
The door clicked shut behind him. Soft. Final.
I stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding. The taste of fish still lingered like a curse at the back of my throat. My lungs wheezed with every shallow inhale. So that's how he reacted to danger. If I would even be considered that. I hadn't intended to kill him, I only wanted to wound him, test the waters, gauge what kind of monster I was dealing with. But now, brought low and held in the palm of his hand, my pride stings more than the pain. The agony of being in this position only fueled a growing, bitter resolve. Fuck finding out why Siege and him had them going out for each other's blood, because the next time—and there will be a next time—I won't settle for merely drawing blood. I'll make him feel every moment of his undoing, each breath a curse, each heartbeat a torment. And when his body finally fails him, when that flicker of defiance fades from his gaze, I'll be the last face he sees, the last thing that crosses his fading consciousness, as his soul slips away into the abyss.
The door had barely clicked shut behind him when it flew open again, shattering my thoughts as I stiffened instinctively, but the person who entered wasn't him.
She was a vision in soft curves and wild dark curls, her hair cascading down in loose waves that framed her face like shadows dancing on velvet. Her smile hit me like a slap—I wasn't ready for something that warm, not in this place. Her skin glowed with health, a rich warmth untouched by the cruelty of this house. She wore a loose black dress that clung to her like it had been made for her alone. Her lips were painted, glossy red, her lashes long, and her eyes—God, her eyes—shone like she'd just stepped out of a dream I didn't dare have anymore.
"Hey," she said gently, voice like honey and summer rain. "You're awake."
I blinked. My throat still burned, my limbs shook under the weight of everything that had happened. She stepped closer, not too fast, not invasive like she knew not to startle me.
"Don't try to talk," she said, holding up her hands, her smile never fading. "Your voice probably feels like glass shards. I brought you some ice chips—doctor said it'd help." She crossed the room and perched on the edge of a low chair by the bed, her presence light but grounding. She held a small glass bowl in her hands, the ice clinking gently as she offered it to me.
I stared.
"You don't have to take it," she added quickly, her smile dimming just a notch. "I know… it's probably confusing."
Confusing wasn't the word. This woman looked like she belonged in a sun-drenched villa on the Amalfi coast, not this house where my lungs had nearly collapsed on a tiled floor. She watched me for a beat, then let out a small breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"James is... my friend," she said softly after a beat, as though sensing the suspicion that had been growing between us. Her gaze flickered to the door, like she was listening for his footsteps, but there was no sound, just silence. "I came to check on him," she added. "He hasn't been himself lately."
I couldn't help but scoff at the idea. James Carrizo didn't seem like someone who needed checking on. He was the storm, not the victim. But I bit my tongue, not trusting my voice enough to say anything that would betray the bitterness rising in me.
"Yes. I know you probably think you have no reason to trust me, but you don't have to worry. I'm not here to make things worse. I just wanted to check on him... and, well, I guess now, you too."
The way she spoke, the way she carried herself—it all felt so normal, so real. I wanted to throw her words back at her, to tell her that I didn't need anyone's sympathy, least of all hers. But I stayed silent. Her eyes stayed on me, unwavering, understanding something I didn't have the strength to say aloud. Then, gently, she leaned back in her chair and offered the bowl of ice chips once more. "Take them if you need them. You don't have to thank me. I'm just trying to make this place a little less... awful for you."
The sting of her words was undeniable, giving me the urge to snap at her for thinking I needed her help but instead, I took the bowl, not out of gratitude, but because the tremors in my hands were telling me I needed to, whether I liked it or not. The cold against my lips was a small comfort, but it was enough for now.
"My name is Fleory Moretti," she said, her voice threading through the silence, "You're Alya, right? Siege Corginei's daughter."