Chapter Four
Jack
"You must be thirsty. I'm sorry," I say gently, moving toward the end of the bed.
The omega flinches—barely, but enough. Like he's bracing for a slap instead of a drink.
My stomach twists.
Slowly, carefully, I pick up the glass bottle I'd left on the bedside table. Condensation beads along the sides, cold against my palm. I twist the cap off with a quiet crack and crouch, holding it out so he can see every move.
He stares at me.
I don't blame him. His eyes are the wide, watchful kind of like he's waiting for the catch. For me to demand something in return.
"I won't bite," I say, forcing a smile. It probably looks like a grimace. "Just drink."
His fingers tremble as he takes it, curling delicately around the glass. Even bruised and scraped, they're elegant. He grips the bottle as though it might vanish.
And when he drinks—God. It's like watching a wilted flower draw water. Small gulps. Eyes flicking up every few seconds to check if I'm still watching.
I am. Of course I am.
Maybe I should look away. Give him privacy. But something about him makes me forget how to blink.
His throat works as he swallows, lashes fluttering. His scent is stronger this close—roses drowned in wine, brushed with strawberries and warm apple skins. Dizzying. Maddening.
He lowers the bottle and licks his lips. Then—barely audible—
"Thank you."
I blink. "You're welcome."
I retreat to the chair by the bed, keeping my posture relaxed. Not too close. Not too far. He watches me warily, like a stray cat deciding whether the hand reaching out is safe.
"What's your name?" I ask after a pause, voice low.
His grip tightens on the blanket, knuckles whitening. Then—soft, hesitant—
"Ciel."
Of course it is. I mean I knew it had to be.
"Nice to meet you, Ciel," I say, trying to sound warm. Human. The way people do in those cheesy holiday movies Rose used to force on me during treatment. Except my voice comes out rough, like gravel.
He just blinks.
I sigh quietly through my nose. Try again. "Won't you take a shower? It might help you feel more comfortable. I'll make some soup while you wash, yeah?"
He doesn't answer, but after a beat, he gives a single, wary nod.
Good enough.
I fetch a robe and towel from the wardrobe—emergency guest stock I'd bought on a whim when I moved in. I set them neatly at the foot of the bed.
"Bathroom's through there," I murmur, gesturing toward the en suite. "Take your time."
His gaze tracks my hand, but he says nothing.
I nod once and leave the room, easing the door shut behind me.
Out in the hall, I rub the back of my neck.
This isn't how I pictured my new life.
***
Ciel
The shower hisses to life, steaming the air. It takes me a full minute to figure out the knobs—so many dials, gleaming metal, nothing like the cracked taps behind gas stations. But I manage. Eventually.
Heat pours over me.
The spray thuds against my skin, each droplet scalding, soothing. Steam curls around me, clinging to my hair, fogging the glass. I close my eyes and let it wash over me, into every bruise, every ache I've been carrying.
I can't remember the last time I felt this. Not a hurried splash from a dirty faucet. Not a cold wipe-down in shadows. A real shower.
For a moment, I just stand there, chest heaving, as though my body doesn't know how to accept safety.
I step out slowly, wrapping the robe around me. It's thick, soft, absurdly warm. Probably worth more than anything I've ever owned.
The bathroom gleams white and silver. Even the toothbrush is sealed. My fingers tremble as I open it, brushing my teeth with deliberate strokes. Each motion feels stolen. Indulgent. Dangerous.
Then I raise my head.
And freeze.
The mirror doesn't lie.
Bruises, faded but lingering, trace across my shoulders. My collarbones jut sharp, a map of skipped meals. And lower—my belly. Swollen, round, fragile.
I press my hands against it. My breath catches.
Still here. Still alive.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
Please… don't let him hurt me. But if he does—give me the strength to endure.
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand, knot the robe tighter, and pad barefoot back into the bedroom.
The air smells faintly of lavender and sunlight. His scent. Calm. Grounding. Dangerous in its gentleness.
I hesitate at the threshold, then move to the bed.
The mattress dips as I perch carefully on the edge, knees drawn together, hands folded awkwardly in my lap.
Waiting.
The robe is too soft, the room too quiet, the peace too fragile. I sit like I've been trained to sit: small, silent, ready for judgment.
And I stare at the door.
Because he will come.
They always come.