CHAPTER NINETEEN
ALICE
My consciousness returns in slow, agonizing waves.
The first thing I notice isn't the pain, but the texture.
I'm lying on something so soft it feels like a cloud—a stark, confusing contrast to the scratchy, second-hand linens of my own apartment.
I try to move, but my limbs are heavy, anchored by a strange, hazy lethargy.
I'm hot. Too hot.
It's a dry, humming heat that radiates from deep within my bones, making my skin feel overly sensitive to the air.
My head throbs with a rhythmic, dull beat that matches the pulsing in my ears. Why is it throbbing?
I try to open my eyes, but the light in the room is dimmed to a soft, amber glow that makes my fuzzy brain ache.
"Don't move," a voice commands.
It's a low, gravelly rumble. It doesn't sound like Mio. It certainly isn't my father—that man wouldn't care if I were dead or alive.
My heart hitches, a spike of adrenaline cutting through the feverish fog.
I force my eyelids open, squinting against the blur.
This isn't the infirmary.
The ivory ceiling is gone, replaced by dark, coffered wood.
The walls are a deep charcoal, and floor-to-ceiling glass reveals the glittering skyline of the city outside. It's a view that costs more than my entire life is worth.
"Where..." I start to ask, but my throat is a desert.
I can't even finish the word before a cool glass is pressed against my lips.
"Drink. Slowly."
I look up, my vision finally steadying.
Zade is hovering over me.
He's shed his oxblood blazer, his white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension.
He looks exhausted. The gold of his eyes is shadowed by a dark weariness that looks suspiciously like a lack of sleep.
I take a sip, the cold water soothing the fire in my throat.
I want to pull away, to demand to know why I'm in what looks like a billionaire's lair, but the fever makes me weak.
I sink back into the pillows. Silk, I realize.
They smell like him—sandalwood and something cold, like rain on stone.
"You're at my place," he says, as if reading the frantic questions in my eyes.
"The doctor said you couldn't be alone, and you don't exactly have a welcoming committee waiting at your rat-hole of an apartment."
I want to snap at him. I want to tell him that my "rat-hole" is at least honest, but my brain feels like it's floating in warm syrup.
"You hit me," I whisper, the memory of the golf course flashing like a strobe light. I remember the crack, the pain, and then the darkness...
Zade's hand, which was reaching to set the glass down, stops.
His jaw tightens, a muscle leaping in his cheek.
For a second, the arrogance vanishes, replaced by a raw, jagged edge of guilt that makes him look terrifyingly human.
"I know," he says, his voice barely audible.
He reaches out, his fingers hovering near my forehead before he hesitates.
Then, as if fighting an internal war, he presses the back of his hand to my skin.
His touch is shockingly cool against my fever. I should flinch.
I should call him a monster.
Instead, I find myself leaning into the contact.
"You're burning up," he mutters, more to himself than to me.
"Cox said this would happen."
He disappears for a moment, returning with a bowl of water and a cloth.
I watch him through the slits of my lashes.
This man had tried to humiliate me in front of the elite.
Now, he's wringing out a cloth with a focused, almost desperate intensity.
He sits on the edge of the bed—the silk dipping under his weight—and begins to dab my face.
He's surprisingly gentle.
His movements are clinical, but there's a tremor in his fingers that tells a different story.
"Why?" I ask, my voice trailing off into a shiver.
"Why what, Alice?"
"Why did you hit me?" I ask, tears suddenly gathering in my eyes.
The pain in my head is nothing compared to the confusion in my chest.
Zade stops, the damp cloth resting against my cheek.
He looks down at me, his amber eyes swirling with a dark, chaotic energy.
He looks like a man haunted by ghosts I can't see.
"I didn't mean to hit you. I was just... distracted. I sorry for it, really," he says, though the words lack their usual bite.
"You broke my glasses," I say, the tears finally spilling over and soaking into the expensive pillow.
"I'll get you a new pair, I promise," he says, his voice sounding like it's coming from the bottom of a deep well.
"You hate me..." I whisper, trying to remain conscious, though the darkness is pulling at me again.
"I do," he says. His voice is cold, but his hand is still gentle.
"But I don't break my toys until I'm finished with them. And I'm not finished with you yet."
My eyes start to drift shut, the medication pulling me back under.
The last thing I feel is the weight of his gaze and the cool sensation of the cloth on my skin.
"Stay awake, Alice," he whispers, his voice sounding miles away. "Keep talking..."
I want to tell him that I can't talk because I'm so, so tired.
And for the first time since I stepped into Oakhaven, the world doesn't feel like it's trying to crush me.
I want to tell myself to wake up and leave this nightmare, but God...
I don't want to wake up from this nightmare.