a lonely cottage, a girl the villagers whisper about, and the creature who guards her door each night.
steam & soft hands | standalone [part of what wolves fear universe]
you indulge in a bath while Adam is out hunting. He thinks you're gone when he can't immediately find you, he just wants to worship you.
now, run | standalone
adam chases reader through the forest after she saves victor from the monster, until adam decides he's done playing with victor and wants to play with her, instead.
but i would kill for you | standalone
adam would kill for you. you beg him not to. he obeys and asks for one thing in return; you.
anatomy of mercy | series
sent north in search of knowledge, you instead find a man entombed in ice—one the world insists on calling a monster. As the Royal Society closes in and restraint becomes a choice rather than a chain, love grows in the narrow space between devotion and violence, where understanding is not safety, but defiance.
And then I learned it. The horror of the truth. I understood that I was nothing. A wretch. A blot. Not even of the same nature as man.
This hurt clung to my mind. It never let go.
taking a little unprompted mini break was very nice <3
i ended up going through a massive career change but after this week, we are back on track yippie! thank u for everyone who kept reading i have not forgotten about my stories <3 i will return to them!!
let’s get back to writing some dirty adam 🧎🏻♀️🧎🏻♀️🧎🏻♀️🧎🏻♀️
"In a lot of Guillermo's films, and in great sort of monster films, there's an emphasis on the hands. So I think in terms of alluding to something, there's this shot in Cronos, I had that at the front of journal."
this new tumblr update is fucking garbo wtf. anyways i need to gos with someone so much happened and i also started writing a princess!reader x monster!adam fic
summary: drawn together in the frozen north, Adam and the reader recognize one another as something rare and dangerous—two lives choosing each other in a world determined to tear them apart.
pairing: adam frankenstein x reader
word count: 15,125 words
themes: arctic isolation + “oh god i’m alone”, survival horror vibes, “science” as an excuse to be evil, authority abusing power, being treated like a specimen, Adam being terrifying but choosing restraint, reader being stubborn as hell and way too brave, saving each other by accident (then on purpose), trust forming in a crisis (hello trauma bond), fear vs curiosity, soft intimacy in a fucked situation, protectiveness that’s one step from possessive, “don’t touch him / don’t touch me”, two morally grey weirdos imprinting on each other, MDNI (18+ ONLY), genuinely the blind leading the blind through the ice, oh yeah and a way too early kiss/makeout sesh, oh also this isn't really canon to m. shelley or gdt but it takes from both pls don't yell at me
authors note: okay hi so sorry for being so MIA (this timezone difference is killing me but heyyyy) also i'm begging you to read this while listening to inbred, strangers, amber waves, onanist, punish, strangers, and knuckle velvet by ethel cain
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
He does not remember the moment the ice closed over him.
He remembers the cold long before that—remembers it the way one remembers a wound that never healed properly. The north was not new to him when he fled into it. It felt, perversely, familiar. Empty. Unforgiving. Honest in its cruelty.
Victor had chased him here, that much he remembers clearly.
The pursuit had been frantic at first—boots slipping, breath ragged, a man driven by horror of his own making. The creature had let himself be seen. Let Victor follow. There was a grim satisfaction in that, though he did not yet have the language to name it.
Come and look, then. Come and see what you made.
The chase did not end in confrontation. It ended in collapse.
The ice had given way without warning, a sudden betrayal beneath his weight. He remembers the sound of it—sharp, cracking, and final. The water swallowed him whole, black and brutal, tearing heat from his body with immediate violence.
He should have died. That realization does not frighten him.
Death, to a creature like him, has always seemed like a reasonable conclusion. What confuses him is that he does not die.
His body fights the cold in ways he does not understand. Muscles seize and adapt. His heart slows, then steadies. Sensation dulls, not into unconsciousness, but into something quieter. Time stretches thin. Thought loosens its grip.
The ice closes above him again and he becomes still.
Days pass. Or weeks. Or months. Time loses its meaning when nothing changes.
Encased in ice, the creature exists in a strange half-state—aware, but distant. Memory drifts in and out without order. Victor’s voice echoes sometimes, sharp with terror and revulsion. Other voices follow—earlier ones, louder ones, filled with shouting and pain and the certainty that he should not exist.
He does not dream the way humans do.
What comes to him instead are sensations: pressure, cold, the endless ache of restraint. His body does not decay. It waits.
He waits. He does not know for what.
There is no hope in him. No expectation of rescue. The world has never intervened on his behalf before. Why would it begin now?
And then—warmth.
It is faint at first, almost imperceptible. A wrongness against the endless cold.
His awareness sharpens.
Pressure shifts near his chest. Not the weight of ice—but something tentative, careful and curious.
A hand.
The contact is brief, gloved, trembling slightly against the frozen surface. But it is enough.
It is new. Then, the ice groans.
Something inside of the creature responds before thought can form. Instinct surges where memory once lived. His body moves, slow at first, then with gathering force.
The ice fractures.
And the world above begins to break open.
You have never trusted silence.
Not the kind that settles politely in libraries or lecture halls. That kind can be coaxed into speech. No, this silence is different. Vast. Absolute. The Arctic has a way of swallowing sound so completely it makes you feel as though you are the only living thing left.
That, perhaps, is why you listen so carefully.
The ship grinds forward through the ice with a low, animal groan, timbers protesting as though each mile is a negotiation rather than progress. You stand at the rail, journal tucked under one arm, breath fogging the air.
You are here because understanding is safety. You have believed that all your life.
The men aboard the ship whisper of omens and madness, of the north as though it is cursed. You dismiss them quietly. Fear thrives on ignorance. Knowledge, you have always found, is a far more reliable companion.
“Doctor,” the first mate calls. You turn. “There’s something ahead.”
The way he says it—hesitant, uncertain—sets your pulse racing. You follow his gaze.
At first, you see only ice, then you see the shape.
It lies half-buried beneath the surface, dark against the pale expanse. Too large to be debris. Too symmetrical to be natural.
“A body,” someone mutters.
Your breath catches. Not with horror—but recognition. Bodies decay. Even here.
You lean farther over the rail, eyes narrowing as you take in the fractures radiating outward from the shape. The ice has not merely trapped whatever lies beneath it.
It has been pushed back. “I need to examine it,” you say. The objections come immediately.
The ice is unstable. We’ll lose daylight. It’s not worth the risk.
You listen to none of them.
They lower you down reluctantly, ropes taut as your boots meet the ice. The cold hums beneath your feet, alive with tension. Each step feels deliberate, weighted with consequence.
You kneel beside the figure and up close, it is unmistakably human. Too human.
The skin visible beneath the ice is pale. Dark hair fans outward as though caught mid-motion. One hand is curled against its chest—not slack, but tense.
You press your palm to the ice. You expect nothing. You feel resistance.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp. “That’s not possible,” you whisper.
The ice cracks.
The sound is violent and sudden, splitting the world open beneath you. Your footing vanishes. The sea yawns wide, black and endless, and terror lances through you with surgical precision.
You fall.
The cold surges upward, brutal and immediate, stealing breath, sensation, thought…and then something moves.
The ice explodes outward as a massive hand breaks through, fingers closing around your forearm with terrifying certainty. The grip is iron-hard and controlled, pulling you forward instead of down.
You collide against something solid. Warm. The sensation is so profoundly wrong it steals your breath.
An arm braces your waist as the ice collapses where you stood seconds before. You cling instinctively, fingers digging into frozen fabric, heart hammering wildly.
He breathes.
Deep. Ragged. Alive.
You look up. Not a corpse. Not a myth. Not a theory. Something ancient and impossibly present holds you above the abyss.
And as the crew screams above you and the ice continues to fracture, you realize—with a clarity that terrifies you more than the cold ever could—that understanding has just failed to keep you safe.
And yet, somehow, he has. He does not know her. That should matter more than it does.
Her weight is wrong in his arms. She is too light, too fragile, too warm. The contrast is violent. Heat bleeds through his frozen skin in a way that hurts, a sharp, aching sensation that drags him fully, brutally into the present.
She is alive. The realization lands with crushing force.
Not abstract life. Not distant. This life is shaking against him, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps, fingers clutching at his coat as though he is the only solid thing left in the world.
He should let her go.
The ice is breaking. The sea is rising. The men above are shouting—voices full of fear and command and threat. He recognizes that tone. It has followed him his entire existence.
Let go. Step back. Disappear.
Instead, he tightens his grip.
The ice gives way beneath them with a sound like screaming bone. The creature shifts instinctively, turning his body so that when the surface collapses entirely, it is his back that takes the shock, not hers. The water surges up around his legs, burning cold, but he barely registers it.
All of his attention is on keeping her above the black Arctic waters.
Her heart is racing. He can feel it where her chest presses against him, frantic and wild. It is unbearably loud.
“Hold on,” she gasps—whether to him or herself, he cannot tell.
He does not answer. He does not have words ready for this moment.
He only knows that the idea of her slipping from his grasp, of that heat vanishing into the dark, fills him with something close to terror.
He moves.
With a force that splinters the remaining ice, he drives them forward, one arm braced around her waist, the other finding safety on a thicker shelf near the surface. The effort cracks something deep in the frozen expanse. The sound echoes outward, violent and final.
Men shout. Ropes fall. Light fractures the grey sky above them.
He hauls them both upward, muscles burning with a familiar, grounding pain. Hands reach down—hesitant at first, then desperate.
They grab her, though does not release her immediately.
Someone yells, “Get it back in the water!” He growls.
The sound rips out of him without permission—low, rough, unmistakably inhuman. It vibrates through his chest, through her, through the ice itself.
The hands falter.
Only when she is fully supported, when he is certain she will not fall, does he loosen his grip. And even then, he stays close. You come back to yourself in fragments.
Cold. Noise. Pain in your arms where the ropes bite. The deck slamming hard beneath your boots.
Hands are everywhere: pulling, steadying, shouting your name.
“Doctor—Doctor, look at me—”
You stumble forward, barely catching yourself, and then you’re turning back, heart in your throat.
He’s still there.
Half out of the ice, water streaming from him in dark rivulets, massive hands gripping the edge with terrifying ease. Steam curls faintly from his skin as the Arctic air meets impossible warmth.
Someone screams. Another man swears violently.
“That’s not—”
“It can’t be—”
“Get away from it!”
You move without thinking. “No!” you shout.
The sound of your own voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. It surprises you almost as much as it does them. You plant yourself at the edge of the deck, boots sliding dangerously close to the rail.
“He saved my life,” you say, breathless. “Do you hear me? He saved my life.”
The captain pushes forward, face pale, eyes flicking between you and the figure below. “Doctor, get back. That thing—”
“Is alive,” you snap. “And injured.” A murmur ripples through the crew.
“No man survives that—”
“That’s not a man—”
He moves then, not toward them, but toward you.
The ice cracks again as he pulls himself fully free, climbing with a controlled strength that makes the ship creak in response when he reaches the deck. He stands bareheaded in the cold, towering, water pouring from his clothes onto the planks.
The men recoil instinctively. You don’t.
You’re shaking now, the adrenaline finally catching up to you, but you hold your ground. He stops a careful distance away, eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus.
“You are injured,” he says.
The concern in his voice is low, rough, unmistakably real. It hits you harder than the cold ever did.
“I’m alive,” you reply. “Thanks to you.”
The captain raises his voice. “Doctor, move aside. We’ll restrain it—”
“No,” you say immediately.
“That’s an order.”
“Then countermand it,” you reply. “Because if you lay a hand on him, you’ll answer to the Royal Society for the loss of its most valuable discovery.”
That gives them pause. You feel it—the shift. Fear wrestling with greed. Curiosity clawing its way past superstition.
“He needs warmth,” you continue, forcing your voice to steady. “He’s hypothermic.”
Someone laughs nervously. “He’s steaming.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s stable,” you shoot back. “And I am the only physician aboard.”
The captain stares at you for a long, terrible moment then speaks. “Get him below deck,” he says. “Slowly.”
A beat. “And Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“If he so much as twitches—”
“He won’t,” you interrupt. You turn back to him, heart pounding. “Can you walk?” He nods once.
You hesitate, then offer your arm. It’s an absurd gesture, given the size of him and for a fraction of a second, you think he might refuse.
Instead, he bends slightly, careful, and takes it. The contact is electric.
You feel the heat of him through your sleeve, steady and grounding, as the two of you move together toward the stairwell. The crew parts instinctively, eyes wide, bodies tense.
“Easy,” someone mutters.
“Don’t look at it—”
“It’s looking at her—”
He hears every word.
You feel it in the way his arm tightens just slightly around yours—not restraining, not claiming. Protecting. Below deck, the door to the infirmary slams shut behind you, cutting off the noise, the fear, the world.
You lean back against it, breath coming fast. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then he says, quietly, “You should not have gone onto the ice.”
You laugh weakly. “I’m told I have a terrible habit of doing that.”
His gaze flicks over you, assessing—arms, legs, face—searching for damage. “You could have died.”
“Yes,” you agree. “I often do that too.”
That earns you the faintest pause in his expression—something like confusion. Something like disbelief.
“You did not fear me,” he says. You meet his gaze. “No.”
“Why?”
You hesitate, then answer honestly. “Because you reached for me.”
The silence that follows is thick, charged, and utterly irreversible. Outside the infirmary, the ship creaks and groans as it resumes its slow journey forward.
Inside, you stand with a being the world insists should not exist and who, moments ago, chose you over the void.
The infirmary is too small for him.
You notice it the moment the door closes—that subtle, immediate pressure in the air, as though the room has drawn a careful breath and is unsure it can hold it. He stands near the center of it, shoulders nearly brushing the hanging cabinets, and water pooling at his feet. The lamplight catches on his skin, too pale, too scarred, and on the seams of old those scars you are trying very hard not to stare at.
Outside the door, the ship creaks. Voices rise and fall. Someone laughs nervously. You do not look at them.
“Sit,” you say, gesturing to the cot.
He hesitates.
“Please,” you add.
That seems to make the difference.
He lowers himself carefully, the frame groaning under his weight. You wince, then school your expression—this is not the moment for commentary. You reach for a towel, then another, pressing them into his hands.
“You’re soaked,” you say. “And you’re going to freeze if we don’t—well. Less than you already have.”
He watches you as he dries his hands, movements awkward but precise. His gaze follows you when you turn away, when you retrieve instruments, when you pull on fresh gloves with hands that are steadier than you feel.
“You are not afraid now,” he says. You pause. “I’m focused.”
“That is not the same.”
You glance back at him. “No. But it’s close.”
You step nearer, assessing him properly now. Checking his pupils, the colour of his lips, the way his chest rises and falls. His body is warm beneath your touch, unsettlingly so, and you frown despite yourself.
“This is…extraordinary,” you murmur. “Your temperature regulation alone—”
“You speak as though I am a problem,” he says quietly.
The words stop you and you meet his gaze. “I speak as though I’m trying to understand you.”
He studies you for a long moment. “No one has ever said that.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“All right,” you say, gently redirecting. “I’m going to examine you. If anything hurts, you tell me.” He nods.
You begin with his hands. They are large, larger than any you’ve held before, and scarred in places that suggest restraint rather than accident. When you flex his fingers gently, testing range of motion, he watches with visible concentration.
“Does this pain you?” you ask.
“No.”
“This?”
“No.”
You move to his arm, then his shoulder. There is a deep gash there, raw and angry from the ice. You clean it carefully, expecting resistance.
Instead, you watch it close beneath your fingers. You still and he notices immediately.
“It frightens you,” he says.
“Yes,” you admit. “A little.”
“You may stop.”
You look up. “Do you want me to?” He considers. “No.” You exhale slowly and continue.
“How long were you in the ice?” you ask quietly. He looks past you, gaze unfocusing slightly. “I do not know.”
“Years?” you press. “Months?”
“A long time,” he says. “Long enough for the world to forget I was there.”
The words land heavier than any number could have.
You move to his chest, listening to his heart. It beats slow and strong beneath your palm, steady as stone. You become acutely aware of how close you are, of the fact that your hand rests over something undeniably alive.
“May I ask you something?” he says.
You glance up. “Of course.”
“Why did you come onto the ice?” You hesitate. Honesty feels important here.
“Because I believed,” you say slowly, “that understanding something would make it less dangerous.”
He watches you intently. “And do you still believe that?” You swallow. “I don’t know.”
That seems to satisfy him. “May I ask another?” You nod. “What do they call me?” he asks.
Your throat tightens. “They don’t know what to call you.”
“And you?” You meet his gaze. “I would rather know what you call yourself.”
Silence stretches. Then, carefully, as though handling something fragile. “My name is Adam.”
The word settles into the room, simple and monumental all at once.
“Adam,” you repeat softly.
He nods once. “It was given to me by a man who meant it as a joke. I kept it anyway.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He watches your face closely, as though committing the reaction to memory. “You may continue,” he says.
You do—checking his ribs, his back, the places where old injuries have healed too cleanly, too completely. With each touch, his questions come more freely now, as though something has loosened.
“Why do you write so much?” he asks.
“So I don’t forget,” you reply.
“Do you forget easily?”
“No,” you admit. “But people forget me.” He considers this. “I do not think I will forget you.”
The statement is simple. Earnest. It sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with cold. When you finish, you step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re…stable,” you say. “More than stable. You shouldn’t be.”
“That seems to be a pattern,” he replies. You laugh despite yourself, a short, surprised sound. He tilts his head slightly, watching it with interest.
“That,” he says, “was not fear.”
“No,” you agree. “It wasn’t.”
Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Less brittle. Outside, someone knocks once at the infirmary door—tentative.
You don’t answer immediately. He looks at the door, then back at you. “Will they take me?” You meet his gaze. “Not without my consent.”
“And if they try?”
You straighten, spine firming with resolve. “Then they’ll have to go through me.” Something unreadable passes across his expression—something like wonder.
“You are very strange,” Adam says quietly.
You smile faintly. “I’ve been told.”
The ship creaks on around you, the world pressing in on all sides. But for this moment—here, in the lamplight, with his name finally spoken—you understand with unsettling clarity that something irrevocable has begun.
And for the first time, he has been allowed to exist long enough to ask questions and so have you. The knock comes again. Harder this time. Not tentative. Not polite.
You feel it in your spine before you hear it properly, the shift from fear into decision, the moment when men stop asking and start justifying.
He hears it too.
His posture changes instantly, shoulders drawing back, weight settling into his heels. Not aggressive. Prepared. The room seems to bend around him, every inch of space suddenly accounted for.
“Stay here,” he says.
You don’t move. “I’m not leaving you alone with them.”
“That is not what I meant,” he replies, gaze still fixed on the door. “Stand where I can see you.”
That lands differently than an order.
You step closer, not behind him, but beside him. Close enough that your arm brushes his. You feel the heat of him immediately, steady and grounding and far too distracting for the moment you’re in.
The door opens without waiting for your consent. The captain fills the doorway, flanked by two men you recognize by reputation alone—steady hands, hard eyes, chosen not for reason but resolve.
“Doctor,” the captain says tightly. “We need to speak.”
“You’re doing it,” you reply. His gaze flicks past you. Fixes. Hardens.
“He can’t remain unguarded.”
“He’s not unguarded,” you say.
The captain’s jaw tightens. “You know what I mean.” Before you can respond, Adam speaks. “You are afraid,” he says calmly.
The words cut through the room like a blade. One of the men bristles. “Watch your—”
“You fear what I could do,” he continues, unperturbed. “Not what I have done.”
Silence. The captain clears his throat. “This isn’t about fear. It’s about safety.”
“No,” he replies. “It is about control.” You feel the air tighten. You also feel, unsettlingly, proud.
“He stays under my care,” you say firmly. “If you have concerns, you bring them to me.”
The captain’s eyes flick between you. “You’re compromised.” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Because I refuse to let you chain someone for existing?”
The men shift uneasily. “He broke the ice like it was nothing,” one mutters.
“He broke nothing that didn’t already intend to kill me,” you snap.
That seems to decide it.
The captain exhales slowly. “He doesn’t leave this room without an escort.”
“No,” you say. “He doesn’t leave this room at all.” The captain’s gaze sharpens. “Doctor—”
“He stays,” you repeat. “Or I document everything that’s happened here. Every word. Every threat.”
That gives them pause.
The captain nods once, sharply. “We’ll revisit this.”
They leave without another word and the door closes.
The silence afterward is violent.
You exhale slowly, hands shaking now that there’s nothing left to hold you upright. You turn and stop.
He’s too close.
You hadn’t realized he’d moved until he’s there, towering and intent, eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with fear. He looks down at you as though assessing damage you cannot feel yet.
“You should not challenge them like that,” he says quietly.
“You should not decide when I speak,” you reply.
Something like surprise flickers across his face, the —interest.
“You do not retreat,” he observes.
“No,” you say. “I’m terrible at it.”
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, your throat, the place where your pulse betrays you. The look is not leering. It is curious. Testing.
“May I?” he asks.
Your breath catches. “May you…?”
He reaches out slowly, deliberately, giving you time to stop him.
You don’t.
His fingers brush your wrist, just above the bone, where your pulse flutters too fast to be dignified. The touch is feather-light and experimental.
“You are trembling,” he says.
“Yes,” you reply honestly.
“Because you are afraid.”
“Yes.”
He tilts his head. “And because you are not.”
The realization hits you like a wave.
You should pull away. You don’t.
His thumb presses, just slightly, feeling the beat beneath your skin. His focus is absolute, as though nothing else in the world exists but that fragile, human rhythm.
“When I am near you,” he says quietly, “my thoughts lose order.”
Your voice comes out thinner than you intend. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“No,” he agrees. “It does not.”
And yet he doesn’t move away. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
You search your own mind for certainty. You find none.
“I don’t anticipate you to stop,” you admit.
Something in him stills. Tightens.
“That is dangerous,” he says, not as a warning, but a confession.
His hand withdraws slowly, reluctantly, as though it costs him effort. The absence of the touch is sharp enough to make you dizzy.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he continues. “But I will not pretend I do not feel…drawn.”
You swallow. “Neither will I.”
The admission hangs between you, terrifying and electric. Outside the infirmary, boots pass. Voices murmur. The world presses in again.
He steps back—just enough to give you space, not enough to feel like distance.
“They will try again,” he says.
“Yes,” you reply.
“And I will want to stop them.”
You meet his gaze, heart hammering. “And I will want to understand you better.”
His mouth curves not into a smile, but something close.
“Then,” he says softly, “we are both in danger.”
The ship creaks on, carrying you forward.
The days after the ice settle into a rhythm that feels forced, as though the vessel is holding itself together out of stubbornness rather than health. The timbers creak as they always have, the sails strain and relax with the wind, the sea behaves itself. There is no visible damage. No dramatic evidence of catastrophe.
And yet…the men walk more carefully now.
They give the infirmary a wide berth, altering their routes without comment, eyes fixed forward when they pass its door. Conversations falter when you approach. Laughter no longer carries. Fear has learned manners.
He notices.
He always notices.
He never paces. Never fidgets. He stands or sits with an economy of motion that makes every shift feel intentional. You have the uneasy sense that he is always conserving something—strength, patience, violence—and that this restraint is not passive but maintained.
The infirmary becomes less a place of healing and more a boundary. You keep the door open during the day, not because you trust the crew, but because you understand them. Closed doors invite invention. Silence breeds narrative. An open door forces them to contend with the truth of him: still, quiet, present.
Alive.
“They watch you,” he says one evening, voice low and even.
“They’re afraid,” you reply, not looking up from your notes.
“Yes,” he agrees. “But they are also waiting.”
“For what?” His gaze lifts to you. “For me to justify them.”
The words settle heavily.
The captain waits three days before confronting you again. When he does, it is not in anger. Anger would be easier. This is measured, restrained, and sharpened by calculation.
“He cannot remain unguarded,” the captain says quietly.
“He isn’t unguarded,” you reply. “He’s observed.”
“That’s semantics.”
“No,” you say. “That’s ethics.”
The captain exhales. “The men are uneasy.”
“You mean they’re aware,” you correct.
“They want assurance.”
“Of what?” you ask. “That he won’t act? Or that they’ll be justified if they do?”
The captain’s mouth tightens. “You’re too close to this.”
“Yes,” you say. “That’s why I’m useful.”
The compromise is thin and ugly. He will not leave the infirmary without you. The crew will not interfere unless provoked. The captain will accept your word as long as nothing happens.
Fear dressed as diplomacy. When you tell Adam, he listens without interruption.
“They should not bargain from fear,” he says.
“They’re bargaining from survival,” you reply.
He studies you for a long moment. “So are you.”
That night, the sea grows restless. Not a storm, not enough to justify alarm, but enough to make the ship shift beneath your feet, lanterns swaying, shadows stretching and contracting like something breathing.
You sit at the desk, pen idle while he stands near the wall.
“You are restless,” he says.
“So are you.”
“I am always this way.”
“You don’t look it.”
“That is because I am contained.”
The word chills you. “You frighten them,” you say carefully.
“Yes.”
“You don’t try not to.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He steps closer—not abruptly, not threateningly. Just enough to change the air.
“Because pretending to be harmless invites mistakes,” he says. “I would rather they fear me accurately.”
Your pulse betrays you.
“And me?” you ask. “Do you frighten me accurately?”
He considers. “You are not frightened of what I am.”
“What am I frightened of, then?”
“What you allow yourself to feel.”
By the fifth day, the tension has become a living thing.
The crew no longer whispers, they plainly avoid. They leave tools behind rather than retrieve them if it means passing the infirmary. You hear boots slow outside the door. You hear breathing change.
So does he. “They will act before land,” you say quietly.
“Yes.”
“And when they do?”
“I will decide,” he says, “how much of myself to reveal.”
That night, you do not leave.
You sit on the edge of the cot, exhaustion heavy in your limbs. He remains standing, massive and still, as though gravity itself is something he tolerates rather than obeys.
“You should rest,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I do not sleep as you do.”
“You still need it.”
“You are changing your behaviour,” he observes.
“So are you.”
“I am responding,” he says. “You are choosing.”
You lie back before you can reconsider.
The cot creaks softly beneath your weight. Lantern light sways across the ceiling. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the chair creaks and he sits beside you.
Not close enough to touch, but enough to matter.
“Sleep,” he says.
“I will,” you murmur.
Your eyes close despite yourself. Fatigue drags you under in slow waves. The ship rocks and the world narrows.
You are dimly aware of him standing again, of his presence shifting closer. You do not open your eyes.
His hand hovers above you for a long moment.
He studies your breathing—the way it evens, the way your face softens as consciousness loosens its grip. In sleep, you look fragile. Human. Breakable in a way that makes something twist sharply in his chest.
When he touches you, it is with reverence.
His fingers brush your hair first, slow and careful, combing through it as though learning its weight. He stills when you shift, then continues when you don’t wake. His hand moves lower, tracing the line of your arm where it lies bare above the blanket, light enough to be barely sensation at all.
You sigh softly in your sleep. The sound goes straight through him.
He pulls his hand back abruptly, jaw tightening, breath deepening not with hunger, but effort. This is not innocence, but reatraint.
He reaches for you again more carefully, letting his fingers rest in your hair, unmoving. Anchoring.
“I could ruin this,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I know that.”
You do not answer.
“I could wake you,” he continues. “I could frighten you. I could make this into something you regret.”
His thumb brushes your wrist, feeling your pulse flutter beneath it.
“But I will not.”
He settles back into the chair, remaining close. Watching. Learning the discipline of stillness.
Hour after hour, he keeps vigil beside you. One hand tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your arm like a promise he does not yet know how to keep.
Outside, the ship moves steadily toward land. Inside, something far more dangerous is learning how to stay.
Land announces itself before anyone speaks of it.
You sense it first in the ship’s behaviour, the way it steadies, the subtle correction of its course, the change in how the wind meets the sails. The motion grows less erratic, less defensive. Even the sea seems to draw back slightly, as though acknowledging a boundary.
You wake to that difference.
For a moment, you do not remember where you are. The infirmary is dim, lantern light low and amber, shadows long and familiar. The ship creaks softly beneath you, a living thing settling into a new rhythm.
Then you remember. You are not alone.
Your awareness sharpens not with fear, but with an instinctive pull toward the space beside you. The chair is there. He is there. Awake.
He has not moved.
He sits exactly as you last sensed him. Broad frame angled slightly toward the cot, one forearm resting along the edge of it, fingers still tangled lightly in your hair. The touch is careful, restrained, but unmistakably intimate. His other hand rests along your arm, warm and steady, as though anchoring you to the present.
You inhale softly and his gaze lifts immediately. “You’re awake,” he says.
The low timbre of his voice sends a quiet shiver through you, less from surprise than from the intimacy of being noticed so precisely.
“Yes,” you murmur. “How long…?”
“A while,” he replies.
You don’t ask how long. You already know the answer would unsettle you.
Outside the infirmary, the ship stirs more actively than it has in days. Footsteps pass. Voices rise controlled, purposeful, threaded with something like anticipation.
Land.
You feel his hand still in your hair. He does not withdraw it immediately. Neither of you speaks.
Then slowly, deliberately, he removes his fingers from where they rest against your scalp, smoothing your hair back into place with a final, careful pass. The loss of the contact is sharper than you expect.
He stands.
The chair creaks softly as he rises, the sound oddly final.
“They will see me today,” he says.
It is not a question.
You sit up, blanket slipping down around your shoulders. “Yes.”
“And you,” he continues, gaze steady, “will be expected to step away.”
The words land heavier than any accusation.
“Yes,” you say again, quieter this time.
He turns slightly, as though considering the room from a distance now—as though already withdrawing from it.
“This space,” he says, “has been…private.”
It is the closest he has ever come to naming what this has been.
“It won’t be anymore,” you reply.
“No.”
You stand, smoothing your clothes with hands that betray you only slightly. “We knew this was coming.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “That does not make it less…irritating.”
The faint edge of something sharp beneath the word sends a pulse of heat through you.
“Irritating,” you echo dryly.
He looks at you then—really looks at you. Not with hunger. Not with confusion. With something darker. Possessive without being claimed. Controlled without being gentle.
“You belong to yourself,” he says. “I am aware of that.”
Your breath catches.
“And yet,” he continues, “the thought of others standing where I have stood is…unwelcome.”
You should be alarmed. You are not.
“Others won’t see what you see,” you say.
“No,” he replies. “They will see what they want.”
The ship’s bell rings once. Clear. Decisive.
You both still.
“That will be the first announcement,” you say. “We’ll dock by afternoon.”
He nods. “Then I will no longer be permitted to watch over you.”
The phrasing—permitted—makes something twist painfully in your chest.
“You were never required to,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. “I chose to.”
You step closer without thinking. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him again, close enough that the air tightens between you.
“This doesn’t end what’s happening,” you say quietly.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts again with visible effort.
“No,” he says. “It changes where it must be hidden.”
That frightens you more than an ending would. The hours that follow feel unreal.
The ship becomes busy in a way it has not been since before the ice. Men scrub decks, coil rope, prepare lines. Officers confer in low voices. Order returns, not comfort, but structure.
You are watched now.
Not just him.
You.
You feel eyes on you when you move through the corridors, feel attention sharpen when you enter a space he occupies. You do not touch him. You do not stand as close. The distance feels wrong, like a lie both of you are forced to participate in.
He does not look at you on deck.
That is deliberate.
When the coastline finally emerges through the mist, a murmur runs through the ship. Relief mixes with apprehension. Civilization looms like judgment.
You stand at the rail, journal clutched tightly in your hands. He stands several paces behind you.
Not close enough to claim. Not far enough to abandon.
“They are staring,” you murmur without turning.
“Yes.”
“At you.”
“At the idea of me,” he corrects.
You glance back.
He meets your gaze openly this time. No secrecy, no softened edges. This is the version of him the world will receive: still, imposing, unreadable. Dangerous not because he moves, but because he doesn’t need to.
“Do you regret coming with me?” you ask quietly.
“No.”
“Even knowing what awaits?”
“Yes,” he says. “Especially knowing.”
The harbour draws closer. Shapes resolve into buildings, docks, figures waiting like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence.
Soon, there will be no quiet rooms. No shared watches in lamplight. No hands in hair, no fingers tracing arms while the world sleeps.
Soon, he will be seen.
And you will have to decide—again and again—whether understanding is still worth what it costs you.
As the ship glides toward land, he steps closer just once, close enough that only you feel it.
“I will remember the way you slept,” he murmurs. “So that when the world presses in, I know what I am restraining myself for.”
Your throat tightens painfully. “I’m not something to be guarded,” you whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “You are something to be chosen.”
The ship slows. Ropes are thrown.
And the quiet you shared slips away. Not broken, but hidden deep beneath the surface, waiting for a moment when it can breathe again.
They move quickly after that.
Not chaotically—efficiently, politely, with the practiced confidence of men who have never had to justify their authority beyond invoking it. The Royal Society does not shout. It does not seize. It arranges.
You are ushered into a receiving room that smells faintly of coal smoke and old paper. Someone offers you tea you do not drink. Someone else closes a door with careful deliberation. The dock noise fades, replaced by the hush of upholstered furniture and expectation.
He is not allowed inside with you.
You feel the absence immediately.
It is not simply that he is gone from your side. It is that the air feels thinner without him, as though something that had been holding the space together has stepped away. You catch yourself turning slightly, as if expecting him to be there, and have to stop.
The man with the Society pin sits across from you, folding his gloves neatly on the table.
“We appreciate your cooperation, Doctor,” he says smoothly. “What you’ve brought back with you is…unprecedented.”
“He’s a man,” you reply flatly.
The man smiles thinly. “That remains to be determined.”
Your jaw tightens.
“Our concern,” he continues, “is propriety. Safety. Appearances. It would be inappropriate for you to remain in such close association with him during the assessment period.”
“Inappropriate for whom?” you ask.
“For you,” he replies. “For him. For the Society.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You’re worried about rumors.”
“We’re worried about influence,” he corrects. “He has already demonstrated a…selective compliance.”
You know what they mean.
You feel it like a bruise.
“He chose,” you say.
“And that is precisely the problem,” the man replies. “We cannot allow emotional entanglement to compromise objectivity.”
Objectivity.
The word makes something cold and furious settle in your chest.
“You will not see him tonight,” the man continues calmly. “He will be housed elsewhere, under supervision.”
Your pulse spikes. “He won’t accept that.”
The man’s smile tightens. “He will be informed.”
You stand so abruptly your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “You are not moving him without my consent.”
The man regards you steadily. “Doctor, you misunderstand. We are not asking.”
The silence stretches.
Then, very softly, “You should understand,” he adds, “that your continued involvement depends on your cooperation.”
The threat is not subtle. You leave before you say something irreversible.
They do not stop you.
Outside, the afternoon has shifted toward evening. The sky is bruised with low clouds, the harbour loud and alive with labour. You scan instinctively for him, heart pounding.
You don’t see him. You feel him.
He stands at the far end of the dock, flanked by two men who are trying very hard not to stand too close. His posture is relaxed, almost casual, but you recognize the coiled restraint beneath it now. He senses you the moment you step into view.
His gaze locks onto you. The look that crosses his face is not relief. It is fury—contained, disciplined, terrifyingly focused.
“They spoke to you,” he says when you reach him.
“Yes.”
“They intend to remove me.”
“Yes.”
“And you?” he asks quietly.
“I said no.”
Something dark shifts behind his eyes.
“They do not care,” he says.
“I do,” you reply.
The men beside him stiffen.
He leans slightly closer to you, not touching, but close enough that his presence eclipses the world around you.
“Then I will not go,” he says simply.
Your breath catches. “You can’t—”
“I can,” he interrupts. “They cannot force me without consequence.”
“And if they try?” you ask.
His voice drops. “Then I will stop pretending.”
The honesty of it is chilling.
You step closer, lowering your voice. “Listen to me. This is what they want. A justification.”
“They already have one,” he says. “They are simply deciding when to use it.”
A hand lands on his arm—one of the attendants, pale and shaking.
“Sir, please—”
The man does not finish the sentence. He does not need to. Adam turns his head slowly. The dock seems to hold its breath.
“Remove your hand,” he says.
The man does.
Immediately.
You exhale shakily. “This is exactly what I mean.”
His gaze flicks back to you. Softens, not by much, but enough.
“They are trying to take you from me,” he says.
The words are quiet. Final.
Your heart stutters painfully. “They’re trying to separate us.”
“There is a difference.”
You swallow. “Adam—”
“I have endured solitude,” he continues. “I have endured hatred. I have endured abandonment.”
His voice lowers further. “I will not endure you being taken.”
The possessiveness in the words should alarm you. Instead, it makes your chest ache.
“You don’t own me,” you say gently.
“No,” he agrees immediately. “But I am not mistaken about what I feel.”
“And what is that?” you ask, barely breathing.
“That when they move you away from me,” he says, “it will not be neutral. It will be violence done politely.”
Footsteps approach. Authority gathers. You reach out without thinking—your fingers brushing his wrist, grounding, deliberate.
“I need you to trust me,” you whisper. “Just this once.”
His breath catches. Trust is not something he has been taught gently.
“How long?” he asks.
“Tonight,” you say. “Tomorrow we fight.”
A long pause.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. The space between you feels obscene.
“I will allow this,” he says quietly. “Because you asked.”
The words settle like a vow…and a warning.
They take him. Not roughly. Not yet.
You watch him go with your spine straight and your hands clenched so tightly your nails bite into your palms. He does not look back.
He does not need to.
That night, alone in borrowed quarters, sleep will not come.
And miles away, in a room meant to contain him, Adam sits utterly still. His hands folded, jaw clenched, every instinct screaming restraint.
They believe separation will weaken him. They do not yet understand what they have sharpened instead.
You arrive before the city has decided to wake.
The streets are still blue with night, gas lamps burning low, their light smeared by mist that clings stubbornly to iron railings and wet stone. Your boots strike the pavement too loudly. Every sound feels exposed, as though the world is holding its breath and your footsteps are the only proof anything is alive.
You have not slept.
You did not expect to.
You walked from the harbour in the dark with the taste of yesterday still sharp in your mouth. Men staring, men calculating, men smiling like they’d already won. The Society does not rush. It simply moves—quietly, efficiently, assuming the world will shape itself around its decisions.
And you have always been foolish enough to believe that understanding would keep you safe.
The Royal Society building rises out of the fog like a mausoleum. Severe. Clean. Permanent. It has the kind of architectural confidence that comes from centuries of being obeyed. You have stood before its doors in other versions of your life, heart pounding with ambition, with the hope that if you could prove yourself brilliant enough, you might be allowed to belong.
Today, you do not ask to belong.
You push inside.
A porter looks up sharply, confusion flashing across his face at your arrival at such an hour. “Doctor—?”
“Move,” you say.
Something in your voice must make him hesitate, because he does. You pass through corridors that smell of wax, ink, and old paper. The air is too warm. The silence is curated. Even the hush feels intentional, as though the building itself expects discretion.
You follow sound.
Not shouting…yet. Not chaos.
The low murmur of men speaking in calm voices, the scrape of metal against stone, the small, clinical clink of instruments being set down.
You turn a corner.
A door stands ajar.
Your hand closes on the frame.
For a heartbeat you pause…just long enough for your mind to present you with a final, naïve possibility.
Maybe they waited.
Maybe they were civil.
Maybe you were wrong.
You push the door open. The room beyond is far too bright for dawn.
Lanterns burn high and steady, their light catching on polished surfaces. A table has been cleared and repurposed. Instruments lie arranged with meticulous care. Things meant for measurement, for cutting, for proving.
There are too many of them.
And in the center—
Your breath leaves you in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
He is restrained. Not loosely. Not casually. Not as though they were unsure.
Iron cuffs bite into his wrists, anchored to the table beneath him. Leather straps cross his chest, his thighs, his shoulders—thick, deliberate, arranged to limit even the smallest shift. Someone has tried to make him small through physics alone.
It hasn’t worked.
He lays very still, head bowed slightly, hair damp where it clings to his forehead. There is dried blood at his temple. Along one forearm, there are thin, clean cuts. Precise, controlled, repeated in nearly the same place. Whoever did it had a steady hand and no hesitation.
A smear of dark red stains the edge of his collar where the leather has rubbed raw.
They have been testing him.
Not for knowledge.
For limits.
Your stomach twists.
He turns his head slowly.
When his eyes lock onto yours, the air changes. You feel it like a pressure shift. Every conversation in the room falters. Even the men who had been speaking turn instinctively to look because his attention has become singular.
Not at them.
At you.
The man nearest the instruments turns, blinking as though you are an interruption in a lecture. “Doctor—”
You don’t let him finish.
“Unchain him.”
The room stills.
A gentleman in a fine coat—too fine for the hour, too clean for decency—clears his throat. The signet ring at his finger catches the lamplight as he folds his hands neatly together.
“Doctor,” he says, voice smooth with practiced authority, “Sir Alistair Hawthorne, President of the Royal Society. You weren’t expected until later. These examinations are—”
“Unchain him,” you repeat, quieter this time.
The quiet makes it worse.
One of them gestures to the restraints as if you are unreasonable for noticing them. “For safety. We needed to establish parameters.”
You step closer, eyes fixed on the dried blood. “You needed to see how much he would endure without retaliation.”
No one answers.
A beat passes—too long.
“He didn’t fight you,” you say, and it is not a question.
Alistair’s mouth tightens. “He was…cooperative.”
You look at Adam.
“Did you fight them?” you ask.
His voice is low when it comes, roughened by restraint and contained fury. “No.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Why?” Your throat feels too tight for the word.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Because you asked me not to.”
The line lands like a blow.
You feel something in the room shift. You see it in their eyes—one by one. The dawning comprehension is not awe.
It’s leverage.
They understand it instantly. The thread between you, invisible but strong enough to hold him still when chains cannot.
Alistair’s expression changes, smoothing into something practiced. “Doctor,” he says gently now, “that is precisely our concern. This attachment…this influence—”
“It’s called consent,” you cut in.
He spreads his hands slightly. “We must ensure you remain objective.”
A laugh almost escapes you—sharp, incredulous, and ugly.
“Objective,” you echo. “While you bleed him for curiosity.”
Alistair’s smile tightens. “We intend no harm. But propriety—”
“I don’t care about your propriety.”
The room stiffens.
Another man steps forward. He is older, confident, the sort who has never been contradicted by anyone he considers his equal. “Doctor, you are agitated. Perhaps you should step back.”
His gaze flicks to the guards.
And then hands are on you.
Not gentle. Not respectful. Not asking.
Fingers clamp around your upper arm, your shoulder. They pull you backward as though you are an inconvenience to be relocated. Your breath catches in shock, not because you didn’t expect them to turn on you, but because it still stings when they do.
“Don’t,” you snap, twisting. “Get your hands off—”
They tighten.
You stumble a half step.
And you feel Adam before you even look.
The shift in him is immediate and terrifying. He has gone very, very still. Not the stillness of compliance.
The stillness of a predator deciding whether mercy is still warranted.
His eyes never leave yours.
You understand, suddenly, with brutal clarity that he is not restrained by leather and iron.
He is restrained by you.
The men speak over you. Something about protocol, safety, hysteria dressed as reason.
A guard jerks you harder and something inside you goes cold.
You stop struggling and lift your chin to meet his gaze fully.
And you say, very quietly—“Adam.”
Then one word.
“Enough.”
The room holds its breath.
His pupils flare.
For one fraction of a second, nothing happens—so still it feels like the world itself is waiting to see if you meant it.
You did.
The table moves.
Not a dramatic explosion, but worse. A terrible, effortless inevitability. Wood groans as he rises and the entire structure protests the force it was never built to withstand. Iron shrieks as the metal begins screaming against metal. The cuffs bend, then tear free as though they were brittle.
Leather straps snap one by one, sharp and final. Men shout. Someone stumbles back. The hands on you fall away as if burned.
He is on his feet in an instant, towering above the room, blood-streaked and incandescent with contained fury. His chest rises in a slow breath, and the sound of it is somehow louder than the yelling.
He does not lunge. He does not strike. He steps toward you. The room recoils.
He comes to a stop close enough that you feel his heat, close enough that the guards instinctively retreat.
His voice drops—only for you. “Now,” he says. A beat.
“Run.” Your stomach drops. Your heart slams against your ribs. And you obey. You don’t look back. You don’t wait for permission. You bolt.
The corridor blurs, polished floors slick beneath your boots, lamplight streaking across your vision. Behind you, you hear shouting, the crash of a chair knocked aside, the sharp command of men trying to regain authority.
But you also hear something else. Silence.
A sudden, unnerving silence that suggests every man behind you has decided, at the same time, that chasing is a poor idea. You burst through the entry hall and out into the predawn streets.
The sky is paling now, a faint bruised wash at the horizon. The city is waking unwillingly—vendors setting up, shutters rattling open, a cart rolling past with its driver staring too long.
You feel him behind you. Not footsteps, but presence.
He keeps pace without effort, coat flaring slightly with his movement, eyes sweeping the street with grim, predatory awareness. No one blocks your path. People step aside instinctively, not even sure why.
When your flat finally comes into sight, you nearly sob with relief. You fumble the key and the lock catches as your hands shake too badly.
Then his hand covers yours—warm, steady, impossibly controlled—and the key turns cleanly.
The door slams shut behind you just as the first edge of sunrise brushes the rooftops.
Inside, the quiet hits like a shock. You turn.
He stands in the center of the room, blood still on his skin, cuffs bent and broken in his hands as though they were nothing. His gaze is fixed on you—not wild, not lost.
Focused. Devoted. Dangerous.
“You told me,” he says quietly. “Yes,” you manage. “And I stopped.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, not crowding, but close enough that your breath stutters. “Then understand this.” Your pulse flutters painfully under your skin.
“I will not endure their hands on you again,” he says. “Not gently. Not politely. Not ever.”
The possessiveness in the vow should frighten you. It doesn’t. It makes something in you go warm and sick and certain.
You swallow. “And what about their hands on you?” His mouth tightens. “They will not get the chance.”
The sunrise brightens outside the window. And nothing about the world feels the same anymore.
The flat smells faintly of antiseptic and iron.
You hadn’t noticed it at first—too focused on getting the door closed, on making sure the shutters were drawn, on listening for footsteps that never came—but once the adrenaline drains away, it becomes impossible to ignore. Blood. Old and new. His.
He stands near the table where you’ve laid out what little you have: clean cloths, water heated over the small stove, a bottle of spirits you will not be drinking. The lamplight catches on the drying streaks along his ribs, his forearms, the faint abrasion at his temple where iron met bone and lost.
“You should sit,” you say. He does not. “I am not injured,” he replies.
“You are bleeding,” you counter. “That is not the same thing.”
You give him a look, one he has learned to recognize already. Not anger. Not fear. Authority sharpened by care.
“Sit,” you repeat. This time, he does.
The chair creaks under his weight as he lowers himself into it, movements controlled despite the obvious tension coiled beneath his skin. You step closer, cloth in hand, and for the first time since the escape you allow yourself to really look at him.
The damage is not catastrophic. That almost makes it worse.
The cuts are deliberate. Measured. Someone wanted to see what happened when skin parted. Someone wanted proof. The healing has already begun. The edges knitting, blood darkening and drying, but the evidence remains.
Your hands shake slightly as you dip the cloth into the water.
“I told you to stop restraining yourself,” you say quietly. “Yes.”
“I didn’t tell you to let them hurt you before that.” His jaw tightens. “You told me not to fight.”
“I didn’t know they’d—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”
“I did,” he says. You look up sharply. “Then why—”
“Because you asked,” he repeats, simply. The cloth presses a little harder than necessary against his forearm. He doesn’t react.
You clean the blood slowly, methodically, as though care might undo what has already been done. Your fingers brush his skin more often than strictly necessary, lingering for half a second longer than professional detachment would allow.
You are aware of it. So is he. “You are angry,” he observes.
“Yes,” you admit. “With them,” he clarifies.
“And with myself,” you add. He tilts his head slightly. “Why?”
“Because I believed,” you say quietly, “that understanding would protect you.” His gaze sharpens. “Did it?”
“No.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it did something else.” You pause, cloth hovering near his ribs. “What?”
“It gave me a reason to endure,” he says. “That is not nothing.” The admission lands heavily.
You move closer to clean the cut along his side, fingers careful, reverent. Your knuckles brush his abdomen, warm and solid beneath your touch. His breath changes—not sharply, not dramatically, but enough that you notice.
Your awareness narrows. This is too close. This is inappropriate. His hand lifts. Not to stop you.
To hover, suspended near your wrist, as though he is asking permission without words. You still. “Yes?” you ask softly.
“I do not know what to do with this,” he says. “With what?”
He lowers his hand slowly until his fingers wrap gently, yet firmly around your wrist, steadying it. The contact sends a pulse of heat straight up your arm.
“With the desire to touch you,” he says. “And the knowledge that I should not.” Your throat tightens painfully.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “That is not the problem.” You swallow. “Then what is?”
He leans forward slightly, closing the distance just enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek. “That I want to.”
The world seems to tilt. You should pull back, but you don’t.
Your free hand comes up almost without conscious thought, resting lightly against his chest. You feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, slow, powerful, and controlled.
“This is a mistake,” you whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “And you still—”
“Yes.” The honesty of it is devastating.
He releases your wrist only to cup your jaw instead, thumb resting just below your ear. His touch is careful now. It’s deliberate, restrained, and reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.
“If you tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “I will.”
You meet his gaze, heart hammering. “And if I don’t?”
His voice drops. “Then I will kiss you.”
The choice sits between you, heavy and electric. You do not tell him to stop.
He kisses you slowly.
Not hungrily. Not clumsily. As though learning the shape of something precious and dangerous at the same time. His lips are warm, firm, careful not to take more than you allow, even as the restraint costs him.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his coat, grounding yourself against the sudden rush of sensation. When he pulls back, it is by sheer force of will.
You rest your forehead briefly against his chest.
“This changes things,” you murmur. “Yes,” he agrees. “That is why I did not do it sooner.” You laugh softly, shakily. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replies, “you have not asked me to leave.”
You finish tending his wounds in silence after that much quieter, heavier, charged with what neither of you knows how to name yet.
Sleep comes eventually, uneasy but real.
Morning arrives with a knock. It’s polite. Measured. Human. You startle awake, heart leaping into your throat. But he is already on his feet.
“Stay back,” he murmurs.
“Adam,” you say softly, reaching for his arm. “It might be—”
“I know,” he replies. “I hear his heart.”
You blink. “You what?”
“He is not afraid,” Adam continues. “And he is not armed.”
The knock comes again. You move past him before he can argue, opening the door a cautious inch.
Jonathan stands in the hall, coat buttoned against the chill, eyes rimmed with concern. When he sees you, relief floods his expression. “Thank God,” he says. “I heard—”
Then he sees Adam and Jonathan freezes. Not in fear, but in assessment. “Well,” he says slowly. “That’s…new.”
Adam steps into view behind you, posture rigid, gaze sharp. The air tightens immediately. “Jonathan,” you say quickly. “This is—”
“I know who he is,” Jonathan says gently. “Or rather, who he isn’t.”
Adam’s eyes narrow. “You know her.”
“Yes,” Jonathan replies calmly. “And I care about her.”
The words land like a challenge. Adam’s jaw tightens. “That does not make you safe.” Jonathan nods once. “Fair.”
You exhale sharply. “Jonathan came to check on me,” you say. “Not to take anything. Or anyone.”
Jonathan lifts his hands slightly—not in surrender, but in transparency. “I’m not your enemy,” he says to Adam. “And I’m certainly not hers.”
Adam studies him in silence. “You will leave,” Adam says. Jonathan doesn’t argue. “In a moment.” Adam bristles at his words.
Jonathan turns to you. “You scared half the city,” he says quietly. “And the other half is pretending you didn’t.”
“Sounds like the Society,” you reply dryly.
Jonathan’s gaze flicks back to Adam. “You did what you had to,” he says. “Both of you.” Adam’s voice is low. “You are too comfortable.”
Jonathan smiles faintly. “I’m not. I’m just not afraid of men who choose restraint.” Something in Adam’s expression shifts—conflicted, unwillingly respectful.
Jonathan steps back toward the door. “I’ll give you space,” he says. “But understand this—” He looks directly at Adam now.
“She is not alone,” Jonathan continues. “And she shouldn’t be. You don’t get to be the only one who cares for her.” The words hang in the air. Adam doesn’t respond immediately.
When he does, his voice is controlled, edged with something dangerous. “I will learn,” he says. “But I will not yield my place.”
Jonathan nods once. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” You excuse yourself from Jonathan, ushering Adam towards the furthest corner of your small flat before he speaks in a hushed tone.
“You did not tell me about him,” he says. “You didn’t ask.”
“I am asking now.”
You step closer, resting a hand lightly against his chest again. “He’s not a threat.” Adam’s gaze drops to your hand. “I know.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and honest. “That he will touch you,” he says. “And I will have to accept it.”
Your heart aches. “You don’t own me,” you say gently. “No,” he agrees. “But I am learning how much I want to.”
The admission sends a shiver through you, equal parts desire and dread. Outside, the city fully wakes.
Jonathan leaved in daylight. That matters.
He does not linger, does not attempt to assert space that does not belong to him. After he says what he came to say—after the words responsibility and choice and world have been laid carefully between the three of you—he steps back toward the door with the air of someone who understands when presence becomes intrusion.
“I’ll give you time,” he says to you, voice gentle but serious. “Both of you.” Adam does not respond. He watches.
Jonathan meets his gaze once more, steady and unflinching. “You don’t need to trust me,” he says. “Just don’t mistake silence for absence.”
Then he is gone.
The door closes softly behind him, and the flat settles into a quiet that feels heavier for having been interrupted. Adam does not move for a long moment. Neither do you.
The city outside continues—footsteps, carts, distant voices—but inside the room there is only the sound of his breathing and the awareness of what Jonathan has left behind.
“You did not deny him,” Adam says finally.
“No,” you reply. “You did not reassure him either.”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “You allow him to remain.”
You turn to face him fully. “Jonathan isn’t something to allow or forbid. He’s part of my life.” His gaze darkens—not with anger, but with something slower, heavier.
“And I am?” he asks. The question is not confrontational. It is naked.
You cross the space between you, stopping just short of touching him. “You’re something new,” you say quietly. “Something I didn’t plan for.”
“Something temporary?” he presses. “No,” you say immediately. “Something dangerous.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Yes.” The afternoon passes in uneasy calm.
You tend his wounds properly this time. Cleaning, binding, murmuring instructions he does not need but allows because they matter to you. His healing is slower now, as though his body itself is conserving restraint. You are acutely aware of every inch of skin beneath your hands, every controlled breath he takes when you come too close.
He does not touch you again. That somehow makes it worse.
As evening falls, the light in the flat shifts—gold to amber to shadow. You light the lamp. Outside, the city dims into something secretive, its edges softened by darkness.
You are pouring water when you hear it. Footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Adam hears them too.
He is on his feet instantly, posture shifting. Not frantic, not violent, but ready. His gaze flicks to the door, then to you. “Stay back,” he murmurs.
You shake your head. “Wait.” The knock comes—quiet, deliberate. Three raps. Adam does not move. You cross the room slowly, heart pounding, and open the door.
Jonathan stands in the corridor again, coat darker now, expression more subdued. The city night clings to him in the scent of cool air, damp stone, and restraint.
“I said I’d give you time,” he says quietly. “Not that I’d disappear.” Adam steps into view behind you.
The tension spikes instantly, though different from before. He is calmer now. Colder. Watching Jonathan the way one watches a blade placed too close to bare skin.
“You returned,” Adam says.
“Yes,” Jonathan replies. “Because things tend to get worse at night.” You exhale. “You’re not wrong.”
Jonathan’s gaze flicks to the bandages, the faint stains of blood still visible. “They hurt you more than they admitted.” Adam does not answer. “He stayed,” Jonathan says to you softly.
“Yes.” Jonathan nods once. “Good.” Adam’s eyes narrow. “You approve.” Jonathan meets his gaze. “I acknowledge.”
The distinction matters. Jonathan steps just inside the doorway this time, but no further. He keeps distance deliberately, hands visible, posture open.
“I didn’t come to argue,” he says. “I came to warn you.”
“About the Society,” you guess. “Yes,” Jonathan replies. “And about yourselves.”
Adam’s voice is low. “Speak.” Jonathan does. “They will not stop. And they will not separate you gently next time. They’ll use you against each other if they can.”
“They already tried,” you say. Jonathan nods. “And they learned something.” Adam stiffens. “What?”
“That you matter to him,” Jonathan says. “And that he listens to you.” Silence stretches.
“That makes you leverage,” Jonathan continues. “And it makes him dangerous.” Adam’s jaw tightens. “I do not need your assessment.”
“No,” Jonathan agrees. “You don’t. But she does.” You close your eyes briefly.
Jonathan turns to you. “You can’t protect him by standing in front of him forever,” he says. “And he can’t protect you by standing alone.” Adam’s gaze flicks to you—sharp and conflicted.
Jonathan steps back toward the door. “I’ll help where I can,” he says quietly. “But only if you both remember something.”
“What?” you ask.
Jonathan’s eyes linger on Adam. “Love doesn’t get to erase the rest of the world.” Then he leaves again and the door closes.
This time, the quiet is not empty as Adam turns to you slowly. “He believes he can instruct me,” he says.
“He believes he can keep me alive,” you reply. Adam’s gaze searches your face. “And what do you believe?”
You step closer, close enough that the space between you hums. “I believe I don’t want to choose between safety and you.”
His breath catches. “That may not be possible,” he says.
“Then we’ll redefine safety,” you reply. For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Then, very carefully, he reaches out. His fingers brushing your wrist, tentative now in a way that feels almost dangerous.
“You make restraint difficult,” he murmurs.
You smile faintly. “You’re doing remarkably well.”
His thumb presses lightly against your pulse. “Only because I want to be worthy of the space you give me.” The admission is quiet. Devastating.
Night settles over the flat like a held breath.
The city beyond the windows does not sleep so much as quiet itself. The sound of footsteps thinning, voices lowering, the hum of life reduced to something distant and indistinct. Lamplight pools softly against the walls, turning familiar shapes into something gentler, more private. You are aware of the quiet in a way that feels almost intrusive, as though the world has stepped back deliberately to see what you will do with the space it has given you.
You move more slowly now.
Everything feels slower after what you’ve done. After what you asked him to do, after what he chose to do because you asked. Your body still hums with the echo of adrenaline, but beneath it is something warmer and far more dangerous: the knowledge that restraint was a decision, not an inevitability.
He watches you from across the room. Not with hunger. With focus.
You gather the cloths again, fresh water, your movements deliberate. You don’t ask him to sit this time. He does it without prompting, lowering himself into the chair with that same careful motion, as though stillness is something he must consciously maintain.
“You don’t need to do this again,” he says quietly. “Yes,” you reply. “I do.” He does not argue.
You stand between his knees as you work, close enough that your skirt brushes his boots when you lean in. The lamplight catches the angles of his face, the shadows beneath his cheekbones, the faint trace of dried blood you missed earlier. Your fingers are steadier now, but you are acutely aware of every place you touch him.
You clean the cut at his temple first. He doesn’t flinch, not from pain, but from proximity. “You could have killed them,” you murmur.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Because I told you not to.”
“Because you asked me to stop,” he corrects. The distinction lodges itself somewhere deep in your chest.
You move lower, carefully loosening the bandage at his forearm. The skin beneath has already healed almost completely. You trace the line of the cut once with your eyes and then force yourself to look away.
“I don’t know how to hold that,” you admit. “That you can command me?” he asks. “That you would listen.”
He studies you with unsettling intensity. “You are not commanding me,” he says. “You are the only voice I trust when the rest of the world becomes noise.”
You shouldn’t like that, but you do.
Your fingers brush his wrist as you rewrap the cloth, lingering for half a heartbeat too long. You feel his pulse beneath your touch—slow, powerful, contained.
“Adam,” you say softly. “Yes.”
“You asked me something earlier.” His jaw tightens. “I did.”
“About the kiss.”
“Yes.” You lift your chin, forcing yourself not to look away. “I don’t regret it.”
The shift in him is immediate and carefully suppressed. “Nor do I,” he says. “That is…the problem.” Silence stretches between you, taut and alive. You don’t step back. Neither does he.
You are still standing too close, close enough that leaving would feel like retreat rather than prudence. The air between you thickens, weighted with everything unsaid.
Then he reaches for you. Not hesitantly. Not roughly.
His hands close around your waist with unmistakable intent, and before you can draw breath to question it, he pulls you forward and down—guiding you onto his lap in one smooth, controlled motion.
You gasp softly, hands bracing against his shoulders.
He is solid beneath you. Warm. Unyielding. His thighs anchor you in place, his hands firm at your waist. Not pinning, not trapping, but holding you there as though the choice to remain is still entirely yours.
“If you want me to stop,” he says quietly, breath close enough to stir your hair, “say it.”
Your heart pounds painfully. “I would have already,” you reply. That is all the permission he takes. He kisses you.
Not cautiously. Not tentatively. His mouth moves against yours with slow, deliberate certainty, as though he has already memorized the shape of this and is now confirming it. The kiss deepens, measured but consuming and his restraint is threaded through every controlled movement.
Your fingers curl into his torn shirt. You lean into him without thinking, breath uneven, pulse racing. The world narrows to heat and pressure and the quiet discipline holding it all in place.
His grip tightens at your waist for a brief moment. Then loosens again.
The awareness of how easily this could tip, of how much effort it takes for it not to, sends a shiver through you. You kiss him back more openly now, the space between you closing entirely. His breath falters against your mouth, a sound so quiet it feels like a confession.
For one suspended moment, it feels as though he might let it go further.
He doesn’t. He pulls back sharply, hands still firm at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.
“No,” he murmurs. Not to you. To himself.
You stay where you are, hands resting against his chest, feeling the slow, powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms.
“If I don’t stop now,” he says quietly, voice rough with effort, “I will not remember why I should.”
Your breath catches. You rest your forehead against his, mirroring him, sharing the same narrow space of breath and restraint.
“This isn’t rejection,” you whisper. “I know,” he replies. “It’s discipline.”
Slowly, very carefully, he helps you back to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to make the separation ache. When you step away, the space between you feels charged but intact, held together by choice rather than impulse.
He remains seated for a moment, eyes closed, breathing steadying with visible effort. When he looks at you again, his gaze is darker, but clear.
“You should sleep,” he says. “So should you.”
“I will,” he replies. “After this passes.”
You move toward the bed, heart still racing, body humming with the echo of what almost happened. When you lie down, you feel his attention remain on you—not possessive, not consuming.
Choosing restraint again.
In the lamplight, with the city sleeping and the world temporarily held at bay, you understand with startling clarity that this was not a loss of control.
It was proof that he has it. And that makes wanting him far more dangerous than if he didn’t.
Morning arrives carefully.
Not with sunlight flooding the room or birdsong announcing itself, but with a gradual thinning of the dark, a pale greying at the edges of the windowpanes. The city exhales into wakefulness somewhere beyond your walls, but here, inside the flat, the night lingers.
You wake slowly.
The bed is warm beneath you, the blankets tangled from a restless sleep you barely remember entering. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly sore in the way it does after tension finally loosens its grip. For a moment, you lie still, staring at the ceiling, suspended between memory and present.
Then you remember. Not the escape. Not the blood. The restraint. Your breath stutters faintly. You turn your head. He is there.
Not beside you, not close enough to touch, but seated in the chair near the door, exactly where he was when you fell asleep. His posture is unchanged, spine straight, shoulders relaxed but ready. One arm rests along the chair’s back, the other loose at his side. His gaze is fixed not on the window, not on the city—on you.
You shift slightly, the mattress creaking under the movement. His attention sharpens instantly. “You’re awake,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep. “Did you…?”
“I did not move,” he replies. Of course he didn’t.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, studying him in the thin morning light. He looks the same as he did hours ago, but there is something different beneath it now. A tension you recognize. Not fear.
Aftermath. “You stopped yourself,” you say softly. “Yes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” he replies. “For both of us.”
The weight of that settles over you as you sit up fully, drawing the blanket around your shoulders. “Did it…hurt?” The question is quiet, careful. He considers it. “Not in the way you mean.”
“And in the way I don’t?” He looks at you then—really looks at you, gaze steady and dark. “In the way that reminds me I am capable of taking more than I should.”
You swallow. “And you didn’t.”
“No.” There is pride there. And something like relief.
You stand, padding across the floor to pour water, movements unhurried. The normalcy feels strange, almost sacred after everything. When you hand him the cup, your fingers brush his.
You don’t pull away. Neither does he.
For a long moment, the flat feels like a place outside of time. Quiet, contained, yours. A knock sounds at the door. Sharp. Measured. You stiffen instinctively.
He is on his feet before you fully process the sound, body shifting between you and the door with silent efficiency. His presence fills the space, protective without being frantic.
Your heart kicks hard in your chest.
“That will be Jonathan,” you say automatically. He doesn’t answer. The knock comes again. Three raps. Identical. Your stomach twists.
“You stay back,” he murmurs, not commanding, but absolute. You take a step forward anyway. “Adam—”
He moves faster than you expect. One hand braces against the doorframe. The other presses flat against the door itself, pushing it closed before you even reach for the handle. The wood creaks softly under the pressure. It doesn’t break, but it unmistakably resists him.
His voice is low, controlled, threaded with something dangerous. “That is not him.” Your breath catches. “How do you know?”
“They are standing too close,” he says. “And they are holding their breath.” Another knock. Closer now. More insistent.
“Doctor,” a man’s voice calls from the other side. Alastair. Polite. Cultured. Wrong. “We know you’re awake.” Your pulse roars in your ears.
You look at Adam. His jaw is set, eyes dark, attention narrowed to the door as though it is the only thing in the world. He does not look at you yet.
“They followed us,” you whisper.
“Yes.”
“And they’re not asking.”
“No.” Your hand trembles as you reach for his arm. “Adam.” He turns to you immediately.
The shift is startling. The way all that coiled readiness softens just for you, the way his focus reorients. “You told me last night,” he says quietly, “that you did not want me to lose control.”
“Yes,” you reply, heart hammering.
“And you asked me to trust you.”
“Yes.”
He searches your face for a long, charged moment. Then: “What do you want me to do now?” The question lands with terrifying weight. The knock comes again—harder.
“Doctor,” Alastair says, a hint of impatience creeping in. “Open the door.”
You step closer to Adam, so close that your shoulder brushes his chest. You lower your voice, steadying yourself against him.
“I want you to hold the door,” you say. “Not break it. Not yet.” A pause. Then he nods once. “All right.”
His hand presses more firmly against the door. The wood bows slightly under the pressure, not enough to splinter, but enough to make a point. The men outside fall silent.
You look up at him, heart aching with something warm and sharp and terrifying. “And Adam?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you…for stopping.” Something in his expression shifts—something vulnerable and dangerous all at once.
“I stopped because you matter,” he says. “But do not mistake that for weakness.”
“I don’t,” you reply softly. “I think it’s the strongest thing you’ve done.” Another knock…hesitant now.
Adam leans down slightly, voice carrying through the door, calm and lethal. “You will leave.”
A beat. “And if we don’t?” Alistair asks. Adam doesn’t raise his voice.
“You will regret teaching me that restraint was optional.” Silence answers him.
Adam keeps his hand on the door like it’s the only thing between you and a knife.
The wood bows slightly beneath his palm, not breaking—not yet—but complaining in low, strained creaks the way a ship complains under too much weather. His arm is locked with disciplined stillness, muscles hard as stone under his sleeve. He stands close enough that the heat of him bleeds into the air between you, warming your face, your throat, your thoughts.
You can hear them on the other side. Not speaking. Breathing. That in itself is wrong. Men who have come to take something don’t usually hold their breath.
But these ones are clever. Educated. They know fear is undignified and therefore they’ve dressed it in calm. They are waiting to see if you will open the door like a good girl, like a good scholar, like a proper woman of science who believes she can negotiate her way out of violence with language and reason.
Adam leans his head down just slightly, enough that his voice reaches only you.
“They are not alone,” he murmurs.
Your stomach drops. “How many?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause tells you everything.
“Two,” he says finally. “Three. Four.” His jaw tightens. “And someone behind them who does not smell like the street.”
You swallow. “Alistair.”
“Yes.”
The name tastes like bile. It’s too early for a man like him to be out personally unless he intends to make a point. Another knock comes. Not impatient. Not hurried. Measured, like a gentleman tapping a cane on a marble floor.
“Doctor,” comes Alistair’s voice through the wood, polished and maddeningly warm, as though you are an acquaintance who has inconvenienced him. “We needn’t do this unpleasantly.”
You don’t answer. Adam doesn’t move.
Alistair continues, tone still smooth. “You’re both exhausted. And you’re frightened. It’s natural.” A pause, as though he is smiling. “We can speak like civilized people.”
Adam’s hand presses harder against the door. The frame creaks. The hinges complain. You feel the vibration of it in your bones. How little it would take for him to splinter this barrier and reduce every polite word outside into panicked scrambling.
You step closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest. Close enough that you can feel the tension in him, the way it gathers and gathers with nowhere to go.
“Adam,” you whisper. His eyes flick down to you immediately, as if your voice is a rope he ties around his own wrists to keep his hands steady.
“What do you want?” he asks, quiet and deadly controlled. You draw a breath. “I want you to hold. Not break.” A beat.
His throat works as he swallows something like instinct. Then he nods once. “I will.”
The vow sits between you like a blade laid gently on silk. Outside, Alistair sighs theatrically, as though disappointed.
“I understand,” he says. “You believe you’re defending him.” Another pause. “But you’re only prolonging the inevitable.”
You feel your anger flare hot and immediate. “Go away.”
Alistair chuckles softly. “Doctor, please. You of all people know the value of evidence. The value of scrutiny. The value of contributing to mankind’s knowledge.”
You press your palm flat to the door, as though you could shove his voice back through the wood.
“You call it knowledge,” you say, voice low, shaking. “I call it cruelty dressed in Latin.”
Silence.
Then, from the other side, quieter now, Alistair speaks as though he is offering you something kind.
“We came to collect what is ours.” Adam’s body goes still. Not calm. Still like a trap resetting. You feel it instantly. The air thickens. The room seems to shrink.
You turn your face slightly toward him and you see it—the shift behind his eyes. Not rage. Something colder. Something ancient. That terrifying clarity of a being who has learned what humans do when they decide they own you.
He leans down, mouth close to your ear. “That word,” he says softly. “Is a mistake.”
You shiver, not from fear, but from the intimacy of his voice when it turns lethal.
Outside, Alistair continues, unaware or unconcerned. “We can do this in a manner that preserves your reputation, Doctor. That preserves your place.”
Your laugh is sharp and ugly. “My place.”
“Yes,” Alistair says, gentle as a priest. “You have worked so hard for it. You are—whether you recognize it or not—an emblem. The first woman of your discipline to be granted this kind of authority.” A pause. “Don’t squander it for…sentiment.”
Adam’s breathing changes.
You don’t look at him, but you feel it: the sound deepening, thickening, the restraint straining like rope over fire.
You step closer to him anyway. You’re foolish because you’re furious, because you have never been able to keep yourself safe by stepping away from the thing that scares men.
“Open the door,” Alistair says, voice sweetening with certainty. “Or we will.”
That’s when you hear it. Not a knock. Metal. A fine scrape of something being placed into the lock. A tool. Your blood runs cold. Adam’s hand flexes against the wood.
“No,” you whisper, and you don’t know if you’re saying it to Alistair or to Adam. He turns his head and looks at you fully now. His gaze holds yours like a vow, like a warning, like a prayer.
“I can end this,” he says. The words are quiet. Devastating.
You shake your head once, hard. “Not like that.” His jaw clenches. “Then how?”
You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe. “We buy time.” His eyes narrow. “Time for what?”
“For Jonathan,” you say, and you hate that you say it because the name does something dark to him, but it’s true. “For an ally. For a plan that doesn’t end with blood on the floor.”
Adam’s expression tightens at the name, but he doesn’t argue. He swallows it down like poison, because he’s learning what it means to choose you even when your choices cut against his instincts.
You put your hand against his forearm—warm skin beneath cloth, solid muscle, that subtle tremor of strength contained.
“Please,” you murmur.
His eyes flick to your hand. Then back to your face. You feel the moment he decides, again, to be what you asked him to be.
“All right,” he says. “Tell me what to do.”
The trust in that nearly breaks you. You step forward, closer to the door, and pitch your voice just loud enough for them to hear.
“Alistair,” you say evenly. There’s a pause on the other side. “Yes, Doctor?”
“I will speak to you,” you continue, “through the door. You may say what you came to say. But if anyone touches the lock again—” you glance back at Adam, and your voice drops, sharpened with something you don’t entirely recognize in yourself “—you’ll learn what restraint was protecting you from.”
Silence. And then…Alistair laughs softly, delighted.
“Oh,” he says, “there she is.” The words make your skin crawl.
“You’re learning,” he continues. “Good. That will make you easier to reason with in the long term.”
Adam’s hand spasms against the door. A warning creak ripples through the frame. You press your palm more firmly to his arm without thinking, grounding him and maybe yourself.
“You have ten breaths,” you say.
On the other side, Alistair clears his throat with exaggerated patience, as if indulging a tantrum.
“Very well,” he says. “We will take him back to the Society. There will be further examination. There will be supervision. He will be housed securely.”
“No,” you say. A beat. Alistair’s voice remains calm. “Doctor, this is not negotiable.”
“It is,” you reply. “Because you cannot move him without provoking exactly what you’re trying to avoid.”
Silence stretches. You can feel men shifting outside, can imagine the guards trading uneasy looks, hands hovering near weapons they don’t want to draw.
Alistair speaks again, quieter now. “What is your proposal?”
You close your eyes for half a second. Your mind races, grabbing for any thread that isn’t made of violence.
“He stays here for the day,” you say. “Under my supervision. You may send one physician I approve of to observe—observe, Alistair, not carve.”
A pause. “And tomorrow,” Alistair says, voice smooth as oil.
“Tomorrow,” you repeat slowly, “I will come to the Society willingly with a formal report.” You swallow. “And I will bring him, if and only if, he comes as a person, not property.”
Silence.
Then, very softly, Alistair says, “You’re asking me to allow a creature of unknown capacity to walk into our halls unrestrained.”
“He walked into my life unrestrained,” you say, voice shaking now despite yourself, “and he hasn’t harmed me once.”
Adam’s breath catches behind you. You turn slightly, meeting his gaze. He looks at you like that sentence mattered more than any scientific argument you’ve ever made.
Alistair’s voice cuts in again, almost bored. “You’re compromised.”
“Then replace me,” you spit. “And see how quickly he stops cooperating.”
That’s when the air changes.
You don’t hear it at first—only feel it: the sudden stillness outside, the way even Alistair pauses mid-breath. Because Adam has moved. Not away from the door. Closer to you.
You feel him behind you like a wall, a shadow, a presence so immense it seems to swallow the light. He lowers his head toward your ear, and when he speaks, his voice is soft enough that you feel it more than hear it.
“Tell him,” he murmurs, “what happens if they try to take you again.”
Your throat tightens. You look back at him. His eyes are dark and unwavering—devoted in the most dangerous way.
You should be horrified. Instead your chest aches. Because you understand what he’s really saying: I will not survive losing you quietly. You turn back to the door.
“Alistair,” you say, voice low.
“Yes?” he answers, and you can hear the faint satisfaction, like he thinks he’s winning again.
You inhale shakily.
“If you try to drag me away from him again,” you say, “I will say one word.”
A pause.
“And what word is that?” Alistair asks.
Your hand finds Adam’s forearm again, fingers curling into him like an anchor. You feel him steady beneath your touch, restraining himself for you, because of you.
You swallow. “Enough,” you whisper.
The silence outside goes razor-thin. Alistair speaks, and for the first time the smoothness slips. “Doctor, are you threatening the Society?”
“No,” you say. “I’m warning you.”
A beat. Then the lock moves again. Not turning fully—just testing. Just a small, arrogant pressure. A reminder that they don’t truly believe you.
Adam’s hand on the door tightens so hard the wood gives a sharp groan. And then, beneath your feet, you feel it.
Not a sound. A vibration. As though the house itself has realized what stands inside it. Adam leans down, forehead nearly brushing your hair, voice so quiet it is almost tender.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “And we will end this.”
Your heart hammers wildly. Your mouth goes dry.
You can feel the line you’re standing on. One side: diplomacy, delay, the fragile chance of a plan. The other: violence, escape, irreversibility.
You close your eyes. And somewhere in the city, far away, a church bell begins to ring the hour.
One. Two. Three.
Outside your door, Alistair Hawthorne draws in a careful breath and says, almost pleasantly. “Open the door, Doctor.”
