Chapter 25

Dr. Thorne was quiet at first.

We walked in silence, side by side through the empty corridor, our footsteps the only sound echoing between the walls. I didn't look at him. I kept my gaze on the floor tiles, following the pattern like they'd lead me somewhere else. Somewhere better.

He glanced at me a few times. I felt it. Like someone trying to read a page you've already torn out of the book.

The silence between us wasn't easy, but it was easier than words. Easier than trying to explain what I'd just done — or what I'd asked for.

Finally, just before we reached the East Wing, he spoke.

"Emily," he started, his voice gentle but probing. "I know you're trying to hold yourself together. I can see it. But this... whatever this is between you and him... it's too dangerous."

I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to. But because I couldn't. The words were there, somewhere, they just didn't want to come out.

"You're clever," he said quietly. "But he's not... normal. And I don't think it's wise to mess with him."

I knew what he was trying to say. A warning in his own way. But I was too far in my head to listen properly or take heed.

'I already know what I want from you, Parker. I've known for weeks.'

What could he possibly want from me? What kind of 'favour' could it be?

Only one thing came to mind, and I hated that that was where my mind went. I felt sick to my stomach just remembering his words.

"I've spoken with the others," Sam said after a pause, making me snap out of my thoughts. I looked up at him for the first time.

"The nurses want to keep you another day or two, just until the bandages come off. You just need monitoring a bit more before we can discharge you. I hope you understand."

I nodded once.

"I'll ask the nurses to take you to the washroom tonight."

That made sense. I felt disgusting. The sweat, blood, and dried tears, the smell of antiseptic, the ghost of Tyler's breath still somehow warm on my skin. I desperately needed a wash. I mumbled a thanks. That's all I could muster. My throat was dry, like I'd been chewing gravel.

"I'll see if you can be transferred back to your room tomorrow, and I'll speak to James about resuming your therapy. I think you need it more than ever now."

We finally reached the double doors of the ward. One of the nurses opened them and stepped aside to let us through. The lights were too bright. Or maybe my head was just too full.

He didn't try to say more. Just gave me a sad look that meant too many things and none of them enough, then turned and walked away. I hated the way that made me feel. Like a child being left behind. Like I should've said thank you. Or sorry. Or something.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced down at my arms, still wrapped in gauze. The fabric was stiff and discoloured with some kind of pinkish stain that wasn't quite blood. I didn't know if I wanted the bandages off. I couldn't bear to see the damage underneath, the scars left by the blade.

I took a deep breath as two nurses tucked me in, strapped me down, reattached me to the machines and muttered in code. The brunette one checked my pulse while the older blonde noted something on a clipboard. They didn't ask where I'd been. Maybe they already knew. Or maybe they didn't want to know.

After a few minutes of quiet poking and prodding, they moved away. One whispered something to the other, and I caught my name in the middle of it, but I was too tired to care.

Tom was still in the bed opposite, half-sitting now, propped up by pillows. He looked at me but didn't speak. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of curiosity and wariness. And something else.

His face was still badly bruised, though the colours had started to fade. His hair had been washed, combed back behind his ears, and without the dried blood and sweat, he looked at least a little healthier.

We stared at each other in silence for what felt like minutes. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just... heavy. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Where did you go?"

It came out rough, like he hadn't spoken in days. I exhaled slowly.

"Tyler's office."

His eyes widened a little. "Why?"

"I asked him for something..." I was going to sugarcoat it, or attempt to, but I've always struggled with tact, so instead it came out blunt.

"...said I want Dylan dead."

Tom blinked. "You— what?"

"For us," I quickly added. "For you, but also for me. You saw what he did to me. This scar—" I brushed my fingers over the line on my cheek, "—from weeks ago. And the bruises on my throat," I pointed to them, lifting my chin slightly.

"He's hell bent on trying to kill me, Tom. I can't let it continue... I'm afraid he might succeed."

He said nothing, but his fists clenched around the bedsheets, making his tendons twitch.

"Listen... there's something you should know," I started again. "Tyler and I... I don't know what's going on between us... but I'm not just another patient."

Tom's lips parted, like he wanted to say something, probably ask what I meant, but couldn't find the words. Confused.

I continued. "It's not a relationship... Not really. But it's not nothing either. I think he—"

I stopped, hesitating slightly. "He likes me."

Tom frowned. "What makes you think that?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek. "He denies it, but not very well. He recoils from me when I'm defiant. Teases me when I'm vulnerable. He gets angry when I talk back — but there's this... this look in his eyes. Like he hates himself for being turned on by it."

He looked almost sick at that.

"Philophobia," I said quietly. "The fear of love or emotional attachment. I don't think the staff know what his fears are. I tried asking James, the therapist, but he said no one knows."

He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing with thought.

I groaned loudly, swiping my hands down my face. My fingers tangled briefly in my hair as I dramatically emphasised by frustration. "He's so confusing!"

Tom didn't answer at first. Then, after a long silence, he asked:

"What happened in his office?"

I hesitated, unsure how to explain it. "He offered me a deal."

Tom's eyebrows knit together. "A deal?"

I nodded, sighing softly. "He said... if I want Dylan dead, there's a price. A favour. Something he'll ask of me later."

Tom's voice lowered. "What do you think it'll be?"

I looked at him. He looked back. Neither of us said it.

"I think I know," I murmured.

Tom's eyes drifted down. He nervously scratched the back of his neck. "Do you think he wants..." he gestured vaguely. Something between shame and anger flashed across his face.

I nodded once and glanced away. "I feel like I've made a deal with the Devil and just sold my soul."

Tom swallowed, his throat bobbing. He didn't say it, but I think he agreed.

He stayed quiet for a while. His gaze wandered the ceiling, then flicked back to me. He looked older than nineteen now, like something inside him had grown brittle.

"What are you going to do... if that is what he wants?"

The question landed like a stone in my chest. I looked at him — really looked — and I saw it wasn't just curiosity. It was fear. And not just for himself this time.

I was quiet for a few minutes. The truth was, I didn't know. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say I'd never let him, never let it get that far, never stoop that low. But the words caught in my throat like they knew I was lying.

"I don't know," I said instead. Quiet. Flat. "I keep thinking I'll find a way to beat him, to twist the game, but he's always two steps ahead. Like he's already predicted my every move before I've made it."

I turned my face toward the ceiling. The lights above buzzed faintly, almost drowned out by the sound of my heart.

"If I want to win," I said slowly, "I can't play by his rules. I have to think outside the box. Do something he hasn't prepared for."

"Like what?" Tom asked.

"I don't know... but I need to catch him off guard."

The idea settled between us, dense like smoke in a sealed room. It wasn't a plan. Not yet. But it was the beginning of one.

Then a nurse walked by with a small paper cup of pills. She handed it to me without a word. I took it, stared at it — four white tablets and a little green one. I knew what they were. Antidepressants. Antipsychotics. Sedation in sugar coating.

I forced them down with a sip of water and tried not to gag.

Tom called the nurse over to him a moment later, asked to use the toilet. She helped him out of bed, slow and careful. He still looked too thin. His eyes had dark hollows beneath them.

I watched them go. The moment they were out of sight, I exhaled and let myself sink into the mattress.

Tom came back a few minutes later, walking stiffly with the nurse's help. His breaths were shallow by the time he sank back into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chest like armour. He sat and stared at his hands for a while.

I watched him.

Then, still looking down, he spoke.

"...You said you made a deal," he murmured. "With Tyler."

I nodded.

Then, quieter: "Do you want to know why he can't interfere?"

I didn't answer out loud. Just let the stillness say yes for me.

Tom shifted against the pillows. His voice came out rough, almost whispering, like he wasn't sure whether he wanted me to hear him or not. But there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before — determination. Like he wanted to tell me.

"I haven't told anyone before... but I trust you. I want you to know."

I nodded, leaning forward as far as I could to hear him.

"I met Dylan when I was seventeen," he said, slowly. "I was... sleeping rough. Couch to couch. Then just... streets. He found me outside a records shop. Said I looked cold. He bought me coffee and a sandwich."

A long pause. He sighed, the sound almost resigned, but still fighting to speak.

"We talked for hours. He said he liked how I listened. Said I made him feel seen."

Another pause. He swallowed hard, and I saw him tremble. I said nothing. I listened intently, my heart breaking with every word, but I had no idea how much worse it would get until he spoke again.

"I thought... he was kind. Funny. Smart. Too good to be real. And I was so—" he cut himself off. Fiddled with the hem of the blanket. Rubbed his thumb over the bandage on his wrist... the one covering the carving.

"He let me stay with him. Said it was just temporary and he’d keep me safe from—” From what? From who? I was in shock. I couldn’t believe how traumatised he was.

“Said he knew someone who could help get me into work. Said a lot of things. Made promises he never kept."

He looked up then, staring at a point past the monitor to my right, eyes distant and dark, as if seeing me in his peripheral was better than directly facing me.

"It was fine at first. He was careful and gentle..." Tears welled up in his eyes but he still fought them back. Still continued his confession. Still spoke his truth like it could set him free. My heart ached.

"First time he hurt me, he cried after. Said it scared him too. That he didn't mean to. That it wouldn't happen again." A single tear fell down his cheek. He sniffled softly. "But it did."

A long, ragged breath. The kind that spoke of trauma kept hidden.

"He told me he had a... blood kink... after we'd already..." He stopped again. More tears followed.

He was trying so hard to hold it together for me. I wanted to hug him. Comfort him. Take him away from here. But I couldn't. Not with my wrists strapped to the bed.

"I thought I could handle it. I wanted to make him happy," he cried, voice cracking.

"But then it got worse. He got worse. Possessive. Controlling. He'd disappear for days, then come back with stories that didn't make sense. And when I asked questions—"

He closed his eyes.

"He kidnapped me. One night. Just took me... I woke up in here."

The air in the room suddenly felt colder. The walls closed in on us.

"He lied about everything. Said he worked for some private mental health company. Said I needed help. That I was sick."

He looked at me again. "And Tyler... he can't interfere. Because on paper, it's not just staff and patient. We're..." his voice wavered, "we were boyfriends."

He said it like a confession. Like it was shameful. Like it was his fault.

"And that made it 'complicated.'" He said the word as if it tasted like ash. Spat it out. Hissed through his teeth as the tears burned his eyes.

I didn't know what to say. What could I say?

He turned his head, like he couldn't stand the weight of my silence. "That's why no one's helped. Why I'm still here. Why it keeps happening."

He paused again. Then added, barely audible: "And why you're the only one who's ever tried."

I let him unravel. He needed to. His sobs, ragged and trembling, were a language of their own — a release long overdue. And I let him speak it, every syllable laced with pain he hadn't dared give voice to before.

I sat there, still composed. On the outside, I was calm, holding space for him, hurting with him.

But inside, something else stirred. Rage clawed its way up from the pit of my stomach, like fire crawling along gasoline. I wanted to scream. To tear through the walls and barrel down the corridors to Isolation. To burst into that room and make him bleed. Make him suffer.

Tom had opened up to me. Trusted me with the truth he'd been forced to carry in silence for far too long. What Dylan had done wasn't just cruel — it was truly evil. It was a rot that had sunk its teeth into him and refused to let go.

And I couldn't forgive it.

Dylan had to die. No more chances. No more waiting.

Tom's breathing began to slow, uneven but quieter, his body softening like a taut wire finally releasing. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. My eyes stayed on him, weighing the moment. Trying to judge whether I could gently pull one more thread — not out of cold curiosity, but out of something else. A need to understand him. Maybe even a selfish hope that he would keep trusting me.

I shifted, slowly, leaning forward just a little more. Careful not to seem like I was pushing.

"What's your fear?" I asked, voice low.

For a few seconds, he didn't react. Just sat there, staring blankly at his hands curled loosely in his lap. His fingers twitched slightly. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he might hold it in again. Then he whispered.

"...My family."

His voice cracked on the second word. Barely more than a whisper. And then, with a sound that broke something inside me: "They never loved me... No one ever has."

The words completely shattered him.

He turned abruptly, curling in on himself, like he was trying to disappear into the mattress. His body trembled with each sob as he buried his face into the pillow, hands clenched around the edges like it was all that kept him from falling apart completely. His shoulders shook. His breaths were loud, broken, desperate.

I could do nothing but watch, arms still strapped to the rails, helpless. I had pushed him too far. He wasn't ready, and I'd known that. I should've waited.

The air between us grew still again, save for the quiet hitching of his breath and the distant beep of machines that felt so stupidly indifferent to everything happening in the room.

So I let the silence return. I let the weight of his pain settle over everything like a fog no one could walk through. Let his truth hang in the air and stain the walls with the sound of his heartbreak.

And beneath it all, somewhere deep in the hollow of my chest, I began to sharpen my fury into purpose.

This wasn't over.

Dylan would pay for what he'd done.

'Fuck the deal. I'll do it if it means saving Tom's life. I'll do anything.'