Chapter 93
Lirael
Sebastian placed his hand over his heart with theatrical sincerity. "I swear to you, I'm the most honest, decent man you'll ever meet. I always listen to what you say, always defer to your judgment. Your word is law in our household."
I watched him spin this elaborate fiction and saw both the trap and the opportunity. If I could get him to commit to these promises now, maybe I could hold him to them later.
"Then..." I met his eyes directly. "If you ever break these promises—if you ever go back on what you're telling me now—I won't accept you as my husband anymore. Agreed?"
The amusement in Sebastian's eyes flickered, replaced by something sharper. The silence stretched between us, and I could practically see him weighing his options.
Finally, he nodded slowly. "Agreed. I promise to honor everything I've said. I'll be patient, respectful, supportive. I won't raise my voice, won't restrict your freedom, won't use my power against you." His mouth curved. "But you have to give me a chance to prove it. Give me a chance to help you remember what we had together."
Before I could respond, he stood abruptly. He moved to stand beside the bed, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Since you've agreed to give me a chance as your husband," he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register, "I think it's only fair that you fulfill some basic wifely duties in return."
I tensed immediately. "What duties?"
Sebastian leaned down, bracing one hand on the bed beside me. "Nothing complicated. Just call me 'honey.' Let me hear you say it."
"That's..." I swallowed hard. "That's not appropriate. I barely know you, I don't remember—"
"Don't you?" He tilted his head, studying me. "Because if you really don't remember anything, if you really believe I'm your devoted husband who's never hurt you, then calling me by that title should be easy. Natural, even. Unless..." His eyes narrowed. "Unless you're not actually suffering from amnesia at all. Unless you're just playing games with me."
Damn him. Damn him for being so perceptive, for seeing through my performance, for turning every advantage into a trap. I could feel the walls closing in, could see him watching for my reaction.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and forced the word out. "Honey."
The word felt strange on my tongue, foreign and intimate and wrong. I'd never called anyone that, never imagined I would call Sebastian that, and hearing it in my own voice made something twist painfully in my chest.
When I opened my eyes, Sebastian was smiling—not his usual cruel smirk, but something softer, almost tender, which frightened me more than his anger ever had because I didn't know how to defend against kindness when I'd spent so long building walls against cruelty.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead, gentle and lingering. "Good," he murmured against my skin. "That's my good wife."
He straightened, and the moment broke. I watched him move toward the door, my mind already racing ahead to what came next, to how I could use this fiction to my advantage, to whether I'd just made a terrible mistake or gained a foothold.
"Rest," Sebastian said without looking back. "Doctor's orders. I'll have someone bring you dinner later, and we can talk more about helping you recover your memories."
The door clicked shut, and I was alone with the afternoon light and the lingering warmth of his kiss and the single word still echoing in my mind like a bell that couldn't be unrung.
Husband.
I pressed my hands to my face and tried very hard not to think about what it meant that the lie had felt almost like truth when I'd said it, or why some traitorous part of me had wanted to believe the fiction he'd spun—of a devoted husband who'd never hurt me, who'd always supported me, who'd loved me enough to wait patiently for me to remember what we'd supposedly shared.
Because that wasn't Sebastian. That had never been Sebastian. And pretending otherwise, even for strategic advantage, felt like a betrayal of something I couldn't quite name.
---
The bathroom tiles were cold beneath my bare feet. I braced myself against the sink, staring down at the crimson stain spreading across my hospital gown with mounting horror.
Too much blood. Far too much.
The pain had woken me—a deep, cramping ache that felt like something vital was tearing loose inside me. But it was the sheer volume of blood that sent panic clawing up my throat. This wasn't normal. This couldn't be normal.
Internal hemorrhage. Lucas's drug must have ruptured something. Or maybe those Genesis doctors implanted some kind of timed device before I escaped—
My knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the bathtub, sinking down as another wave of cramping seized my abdomen. The sanitary pad the nurse had placed earlier had somehow come loose, and now there was blood on my thighs, blood soaking into the gown's fabric, pooling on the white tiles.
The bathroom door exploded inward with a crack of splintering wood. I jerked my head up to find Sebastian filling the doorway, his amber eyes sweeping the scene—me curled on the floor, the blood—before his expression shifted from alarm to something else entirely.
Understanding. And beneath it, opportunity.
"Sweetheart." His voice dropped to that low, soothing register as he crossed the space between us in two strides. "It's alright. I've got you."
I opened my mouth to protest, to demand he call a doctor, but he was already kneeling beside me. His hands caught my shoulders, warm and steady, as if he'd done this a hundred times before.
"I know it feels frightening," he murmured, one hand moving to press against my lower abdomen. The heat of his palm somehow made the cramping fractionally more bearable. "The first heavy flow after what you went through—it's going to be worse than usual. But you're not dying, Lirael. Your body is just remembering how to function normally again."
The first heavy flow after what I went through?
My mind reeled. He was speaking with such casual authority, as if he knew exactly what was happening to me. As if he'd been there for previous cycles, knew my body's patterns, understood—
He's lying. He has to be lying. But how does he know to lie about this specifically?
"I don't—" I gasped as another cramp seized me. "There's so much blood, Sebastian. This can't be normal—"
"It is for you." His thumb traced a small circle against my skin, and I hated how my body responded to the warmth. "You always bleed heavier on the first day. And after three months without proper care, your body's compensating."
Three months. He's building a timeline. Making it sound like he knows me, like he's been tracking my cycles—
The realization should have terrified me. Instead, I found myself leaning into his touch as another wave of pain rolled through me, because the alternative was collapsing on the bloody bathroom floor.
"That's it," Sebastian said softly, gathering me against his chest. "I've got you. Let me take care of this."
I wanted to pull away. Wanted to maintain some shred of dignity. But the cramping was excruciating, and his body was warm, and somewhere in the back of my panic-fogged mind I recognized this for what it was—another layer of his carefully constructed lie.
He was playing the attentive husband who knew his wife's body intimately. Who could soothe her through painful periods with practiced ease. Who would, of course, be the first person she'd turn to in a moment of vulnerability.