Chapter 12
Mercy General's psychiatric ward was sterile white and suffocating silence.
They'd put him in an isolation room. Reinforced walls, no windows. The kind of room reserved for patients who were a danger to themselves and others.
Dr. Reeves met me at the door. "He's sedated, but barely. The drugs aren't holding. His vitals are erratic — blood pressure dangerously elevated, heart rate spiking every few minutes."
"How long has he been like this?"
"Seventy-two hours. The episodes are coming in waves now, almost continuous. We've never seen it this severe."
I looked through the observation window.
Luca was strapped to a hospital bed, his wrists and ankles in padded restraints. His shirt was gone — torn off during the episode, probably. His body was covered in bruises from fighting the restraints, the muscles in his arms taut even in sedation.
His eyes were half-open. Black. Not his eyes — the fury's eyes.
And his lips were moving. Forming the same word, over and over.
I couldn't hear through the glass, but I could read it.
*Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn.*
Something twisted in my chest — not love. Not anymore. Something older. The ghost of a responsibility I'd carried for three years. The memory of what it felt like to be someone's only anchor.
"Five minutes," I said.
Dr. Reeves unlocked the door.
The room smelled like sweat and antiseptic and blood — he'd bitten through his own lip. I walked to the bedside, and his black eyes tracked me with a feral intensity.
"Evelyn..." His voice was a shredded rasp. "You came..."
"I'm here as a medical professional," I said, keeping my distance. "Not as your wife. Not as anything else."
His body arched against the restraints, a spasm of pain — or fury trying to crest again. His breathing went jagged.
I watched clinically. Assessed. The Ashford Medical library had extensive texts on inherited blood fury — a rare genetic condition found in certain old-blood families. The triggers were emotional: rage, grief, loss of control. The cure...
There was no cure. Only management. And I had been his management system for three years.
"Why did you come?" he gasped between waves.
"Because you're dying." I pulled a chair beside the bed — just out of arm's reach, even with the restraints. "And because I took over your pharmaceutical division. Your death would be inconvenient for my bottom line."
A ghost of a laugh escaped him. Even now, even like this.
"Liar," he whispered.
I said nothing.
"You came because you're good," he said, his black eyes fixed on mine. "You were always good. Too good for me. I knew it from the start. I just thought — if I could keep you close enough — you'd never realize—"
Another wave hit. His body seized, back arching, a guttural sound torn from his throat.
I didn't think. My hand shot out and grabbed his.
Instantly — like a switch flipping — his body relaxed. The blackness in his eyes receded, replaced by gray-blue. His breathing slowed. His grip on my hand was crushing, desperate, but the fury drained out of him like water from a broken vessel.
His eyes — his real eyes — found mine.
"Don't let go," he whispered. "Please. Just — five more minutes."
I should have pulled away. Should have stood up, walked out, gone back to my life.
But my mother's voice echoed in my memory: *Tell Luca I don't blame him.*
I stayed. Five minutes turned to ten. Ten to thirty. His vitals stabilized. The monitors stopped screaming. His grip on my hand gradually loosened as true, natural sleep finally took him.
When his breathing was deep and even, I carefully extracted my fingers from his.
I stood. Looked at his sleeping face — peaceful now, almost boyish. The face of the man on the rooftop who'd said *terrible night for that* and hadn't asked me to be anyone else.
"This doesn't change anything," I whispered.
Then I walked out.
They'd put him in an isolation room. Reinforced walls, no windows. The kind of room reserved for patients who were a danger to themselves and others.
Dr. Reeves met me at the door. "He's sedated, but barely. The drugs aren't holding. His vitals are erratic — blood pressure dangerously elevated, heart rate spiking every few minutes."
"How long has he been like this?"
"Seventy-two hours. The episodes are coming in waves now, almost continuous. We've never seen it this severe."
I looked through the observation window.
Luca was strapped to a hospital bed, his wrists and ankles in padded restraints. His shirt was gone — torn off during the episode, probably. His body was covered in bruises from fighting the restraints, the muscles in his arms taut even in sedation.
His eyes were half-open. Black. Not his eyes — the fury's eyes.
And his lips were moving. Forming the same word, over and over.
I couldn't hear through the glass, but I could read it.
*Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn.*
Something twisted in my chest — not love. Not anymore. Something older. The ghost of a responsibility I'd carried for three years. The memory of what it felt like to be someone's only anchor.
"Five minutes," I said.
Dr. Reeves unlocked the door.
The room smelled like sweat and antiseptic and blood — he'd bitten through his own lip. I walked to the bedside, and his black eyes tracked me with a feral intensity.
"Evelyn..." His voice was a shredded rasp. "You came..."
"I'm here as a medical professional," I said, keeping my distance. "Not as your wife. Not as anything else."
His body arched against the restraints, a spasm of pain — or fury trying to crest again. His breathing went jagged.
I watched clinically. Assessed. The Ashford Medical library had extensive texts on inherited blood fury — a rare genetic condition found in certain old-blood families. The triggers were emotional: rage, grief, loss of control. The cure...
There was no cure. Only management. And I had been his management system for three years.
"Why did you come?" he gasped between waves.
"Because you're dying." I pulled a chair beside the bed — just out of arm's reach, even with the restraints. "And because I took over your pharmaceutical division. Your death would be inconvenient for my bottom line."
A ghost of a laugh escaped him. Even now, even like this.
"Liar," he whispered.
I said nothing.
"You came because you're good," he said, his black eyes fixed on mine. "You were always good. Too good for me. I knew it from the start. I just thought — if I could keep you close enough — you'd never realize—"
Another wave hit. His body seized, back arching, a guttural sound torn from his throat.
I didn't think. My hand shot out and grabbed his.
Instantly — like a switch flipping — his body relaxed. The blackness in his eyes receded, replaced by gray-blue. His breathing slowed. His grip on my hand was crushing, desperate, but the fury drained out of him like water from a broken vessel.
His eyes — his real eyes — found mine.
"Don't let go," he whispered. "Please. Just — five more minutes."
I should have pulled away. Should have stood up, walked out, gone back to my life.
But my mother's voice echoed in my memory: *Tell Luca I don't blame him.*
I stayed. Five minutes turned to ten. Ten to thirty. His vitals stabilized. The monitors stopped screaming. His grip on my hand gradually loosened as true, natural sleep finally took him.
When his breathing was deep and even, I carefully extracted my fingers from his.
I stood. Looked at his sleeping face — peaceful now, almost boyish. The face of the man on the rooftop who'd said *terrible night for that* and hadn't asked me to be anyone else.
"This doesn't change anything," I whispered.
Then I walked out.