Page 67 of Twisting Beauty

I locked my bedroom door that night. Wedged a chair under the handle. Lay in the dark and listened to the silence until I was sure of it.

I still woke to his scent.

Musk and woodsmoke and that low, mournful violin threading through the dark behind my eyes. I knew before I opened them that he’d been here again. That the locked door and the chair had meant nothing to him. That whatever walls I built, he already knew the way through them.

The journal page was pinned to the pillow beside me.

The original, edges jagged and torn from a diary. Across it, in red ink, was his handwriting:

Never ignore me again.

Or I’ll ruin you.

I lay there in the gray morning light with his words an inch from my face and his scent still warm in the room around me, and I understood with a settling coldness that I was not dealing with wounded pride or a boy throwing his weight around.

I was dealing with someone who had decided I belonged to him.

20

LORCAN

Ipushed through the front door of Magdalene without slowing.

The reception hall smelled of floor polish and a citrus air freshener that barely covered the sharp note of disinfectant. High ceilings, wood-paneled walls, antique brass sconces burning too low. The whole entrance was a performance, groomed gardens visible through the side windows, a vase of white lilies on the side table, and a framed watercolor of the grounds hung where families could see it while they signed the paperwork. Respectability. Something to believe on your way in.

A woman behind the curved reception desk looked up and offered me a professional smile, the managed kind, trained for difficult conversations.

“Welcome to Magdalene⁠—”

“Lorcan Lasair. I want the RMS.”

Her mouth parted into a small, startled O, and her eyes widened with panic.

I’d seen that look all my life on men who answered to my father. The instinct of her fear at my last name left something sour in my mouth.

“Mr. Lasair!” She fumbled for the phone. “Of course. If you’ll take a seat while I call⁠—”

“No. Now.”

She flinched and nodded, then put down the phone. “If you’ll follow me.”

I followed her as she turned a corner.

A man in a white coat was coming the other way and the eejit pulled up short.

“Move,” I snapped.

At the last minute, he stepped aside. I passed him without breaking stride.

The receptionist stopped at a heavy wooden door with a brass plate that read Resident Medical Supervisor. She raised her hand to knock.

I pushed past her and opened the door myself.

The RMS looked up from his papers, irritation already tightening his mouth. Then his eyes widened in recognition. Fear flashed in them before he could hide it.

He shot to his feet and fumbled at his tie, then his shirt, like he could straighten himself into control. “Mr. Lasair. I wasn’t expecting⁠—”

“I want Rua Lasair’s file.” I crossed to the desk. “Primary notes, session records, incident reports, staff observations. All of it.”