The Cure Is You

Got My Attention.

°ADRIAN°

"Why didn’t you respond to my text?" I asked, gripping her wrist firmly.

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing at the hold I had on her. I felt the tension in her slender wrist, though she didn’t pull away. Not yet.

"And why were you prying on me?" she shot back, her voice sharp, unapologetic.

"I asked first," I said evenly, my grip unwavering. Her defiance was beginning to irritate me, though I couldn’t deny it intrigued me too.

She tilted her head, her dark eyes scanning my face like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "I was angry that you pried at me," she finally admitted, her voice softer but still edged with defiance.

Was that the truth? I couldn’t tell. But I let it slide—for now.

"And you?" she pressed, her gaze locking with mine, refusing to let the conversation die.

"Just making sure you were alive," I replied dryly, releasing her wrist.

The moment I let go, she stepped back, creating space between us. But her eyes remained locked on mine, throwing daggers now.

"Now do your job," I commanded, nodding toward the medical pouch she carried.

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she walked over to her bag. I couldn’t catch the words, but her tone said it all—disdain, frustration, maybe a flicker of rebellion.

I watched her in silence as she worked, my gaze following her every move. She didn’t hesitate as she prepared the needle, though I was certain she jabbed it into my leg with more force than necessary. I bit back a groan as the sharp sting radiated up my thigh.

Was she doing that on purpose?

Before I could dwell on it, she spoke again. "Do you always bark orders at people, or is it just me who gets the special treatment?"

I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. "Would you prefer I ask nicely?"

She paused, meeting my gaze. "I’d prefer you treat people like they have a choice."

Her words landed harder than I expected. Did she really believe she had no choice? Or was that her attempt to paint me as a tyrant? Either way, I wasn’t about to let her steer this conversation.

"You’re in my house, working for me. Isn’t that a choice you made?"

She scoffed, shaking her head. "Sure, because saying no to a man like you comes with zero consequences."

Her mocking tone rubbed me the wrong way, though I couldn’t say why. Was she implying I was ruthless? That I used fear to get my way?

"You think I’m that ruthless?" I asked, my voice calm but cold.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she adjusted the needle with meticulous care, avoiding my gaze. Then, as though she had weighed her words carefully, she said, "I think you’re used to getting what you want, no matter the cost."

The truth of her statement shouldn’t have bothered me. But it did.

"You’ve got a sharp tongue," I remarked, my tone tinged with amusement.

She glanced up, her hands momentarily still. "You’ve got a thick skin. Seems like a fair trade."

A flicker of something—humor, perhaps—tugged at the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t help it. She had a way of disarming me, though I wasn’t sure I liked it.

"Why do you care how I treat people?" I asked, my curiosity slipping through my guarded tone.

Her brow furrowed, and she glanced away, as though searching for the right words. "Because... not everyone has the luxury of fighting back."

Her answer caught me off guard. It wasn’t what I expected, and it left an unsettling weight in the air between us.

"You think you’re fighting back?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, challenging her.

Her dark eyes snapped to mine, unflinching. "I think I’m surviving."

There it was again—that spark of defiance, the fire that made her different from anyone I’d ever encountered.

"Surviving in my house?" I questioned, skepticism dripping from my voice.

She straightened her back, lifting her chin. "Your house doesn’t change the fact that I have to look out for myself."

For the first time in years, I found myself at a loss for words.

She continued working in silence, her hands steady and precise. When she finally finished, she stepped back, tucking her equipment into the pouch. I couldn’t resist breaking the quiet.

"You’re a piece of work," I muttered, more to myself than her.

She snorted softly, shaking her head. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment."

She turned toward the door, and I knew I should let her go. But I couldn’t stop myself. "Why did you agree to this? To us?"

She froze, her hand on the doorframe, her back still to me.

"Why does it matter?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

"It matters," I said simply, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. Something about her—her fire, her defiance—unsettled me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

She turned to face me, her eyes steady. "Maybe because I had no other choice. Or maybe because I wanted to prove to myself that I could survive this, too."

Her words lingered in the air, leaving me unsure of how to respond. When did the power shift in this conversation?

"You’re not what I expected," I admitted finally.

"Good," she said without missing a beat. "I’d hate to be predictable."

And with that, she walked out, leaving me alone with thoughts I wasn’t ready to confront.

As the door clicked shut, I found myself replaying every word she’d said.

She was a puzzle. One I hadn’t planned on solving. But now? I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Let’s see how long you can survive, Serena. Because now, you’ve got my attention.