Between His Claws

Chapter 2: Awakening in the Gilded Cage

Alyssa

The first sense to return is hearing. A dull, distant hum. Then silence. A thick, heavy silence that feels unnatural. It's not the absence of noise; it's the smothering of all the world's sounds.

The second sense is smell. The chemical scent of antiseptic has been replaced by a bewitching and oppressive mixture: beeswax on old wood, rich leather, and a subtle note of… leech? No. Sandalwood. The same sandalwood as on him. His scent permeates the air, as if he were the room itself.

I open my eyes.

The ceiling isn't the white, bright drop-ceiling of the hospital. It's dark wood, carved with intricate patterns that seem to move in the dim light. A mural depicts a red shadow devouring the sun. Sombra Roja.

I'm lying on an immense bed, an ocean of silk and satin. My work clothes, my blood-stained scrubs, have been replaced by an ivory silk nightgown, obscenely soft against my skin. The feeling of violation is immediate, total. Someone undressed me, washed me, dressed me.

No.

Panic is acid in my veins. I sit up too fast, my head spinning, the remnants of the sedative forming a cottony fog. The room… it's a bedroom, but it's a cathedral. Huge, with high vaulted ceilings. A thick carpet muffles my steps. Heavy burgundy velvet curtains are drawn, letting no outside light filter through. The lighting comes from wrought iron lamps, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.

I slip out of bed, legs shaky. I run to the massive oak door. No handle. Just a smooth sheet of cold metal.

— Let me out!

My voice is hoarse, strangled. I pound the door with my fists, again and again. The skin on my knuckles splits, marking the dark wood with tiny scarlet dots.

— Hey! Can you hear me? Let me go!

Only the echo of my own blows answers me. I step back, breathless, scanning the room. No windows. Just these immense walls, a fireplace where a fire crackles softly, and shelves filled with ancient books in leather bindings. A cage. A beautiful, gilded cage, but a cage.

My eyes stop on a detail that freezes my blood.

On the bedside table, placed with surgical precision, are my own instruments. A stethoscope. A tourniquet. A box of sterile gauze. And a scalpel. The polished metal gleams in the firelight.

It's a mockery. A trap.

I rush over, grabbing the scalpel. The familiar weight of the handle in my palm is a false promise of safety. It's a weapon. My only weapon.

Seconds become minutes. Minutes, an eternity. I stay pressed against the wall, facing the door, the scalpel clutched so tight my fingers go white. I listen. Nothing. The silence is torture.

Then, a sound. Almost imperceptible. A faint metallic click.

The door opens without a sound.

He's there.

Silas Cruz.

He fills the doorway. He has changed clothes. Simple black pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing cords of muscle and a network of pale scars. He holds a silver tray in one hand. The smell of coffee and warm bread reaches me, a cruel contrast to the terror icing my insides.

His black eyes land on me, then drop to the scalpel I'm brandishing.

An eyebrow rises, infinitesimally. He doesn't look surprised. Amused, perhaps.

— Are you hungry? His voice is calm, normal, as if he were meeting for Sunday brunch.

— Where am I? My voice trembles; I hate it.

— My home.

— Let me go.

— No.

The word is simple, definitive. He enters the room and sets the tray on the low table. He straightens, hands in his pockets, and looks at me. His gaze is a scanner. It travels over my nightgown, my messy hair, my wild eyes, the raised scalpel.

— That is useless, you know, he says, tilting his head towards the instrument.

— Come closer and you'll see.

A real smile, this time. White, cruel, magnificent. He takes a step. Then another.

— I'm coming closer, Doctor. And now?

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