Chapter 7：Held in Tenderness
She barely held herself together the night before, clinging to consciousness like a thread stretched to breaking.Around ten, she passed out—not with a cry or a struggle, but quietly, as if folding inward.
Morning light filtered through the curtains when she stirred.She sat up slowly, but her body didn't feel like her own.A dull ringing echoed in her ears—not from the room, but from somewhere deep inside,like the warning siren of something collapsing.
Still, she got to her feet. Reached for the door.Pulled it open. Took one step.And fell.
No scream. No cry.Just a sudden collapse—like a puppet whose strings had been silently cut.A guard nearby caught the motion just in time.He rushed forward, catching her before her head hit the floor.Pressing a hand to his earpiece, he spoke sharply:"She's down. Now."
Sebastian was on the garden balcony, seated with a newspaper.He had just turned the page when the message came through his earpiece—clipped, low, urgent.
He froze. Then stood.No words. No questions. No hesitation.He moved.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor—quick, precise.Someone tried to speak. He silenced them with a flick of his hand.
When he arrived, Liliane was curled on a chaise, unconscious.Her face pale, her hair damp against her temples,a sheen of feverish sweat catching the light.
Sebastian stood over her for a moment—silent.His expression unreadable. Not quite fear.Something sharper beneath the surface.Something like... disappointment.
Then he moved.
He knelt and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.Hot. Burning.
"Fever," he muttered.Not alarmed—Just coolly identifying a fault.
"Get the doctor," he ordered quietly. "Now."Then he picked her up—carefully, effortlessly.Cradled her like something valuable. But damaged.
His gaze lingered on her flushed face. Still. Unaware.Finally, his voice returned—lower, tighter."You're always finding ways… to slip away from me."
It wasn't anger.It was something more dangerous.Something almost like grief.
There were two well-known doctors in the organization.
One was Elias—twenty-four, technically brilliant, though without a license.Reattaching severed limbs, cracking open bodies, stitching them back up—he was a surgeon in all but name.But no matter how skilled he was, the Boss would never let him treat Liliane.
The other was Elias's mother.A no-nonsense, iron-willed physician from a top medical university.More importantly—she was a woman. In her fifties. A mother-type.A safe presence.
The moment the call went out, the medical team arrived within five minutes.But at the far end of the hallway stood Elias.
He wore a short white coat, sleep still clinging to his expression,a surgical kit in hand—clearly summoned on short notice.
"Where is she?" he asked, voice laced with raw urgency.
But the guard outside the room raised a hand.
"You can't go in."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "Me? Can't go in?"
"Boss's orders," the guard said stiffly. "He said—send your mother."
Ten minutes later, she arrived.
In her early fifties, wearing a loose charcoal dress.Hair pinned neatly. Expression calm, unhurried.
She glanced at her son, then sighed."I told you, didn't I? Don't get involved with that girl."
Elias only shrugged, handing her the kit with a lopsided grin."I haven't laid a hand on her."
She said nothing. Just pushed the door open and walked in.
The room was quiet.Only the soft hum of the ventilator and cooling machine broke the silence.
Sebastian sat at the bedside, changing the cold towel on Liliane's forehead.The white cloth, soaked in chilled water, was folded with meticulous care and pressed gently to her skin.His hands moved with a strange tenderness—precise, deliberate.As if tending not to a person, but to something delicate. Something breakable.
The doctor set the case down and glanced at the monitor—then at Liliane herself.She had liked this girl from the start.Quiet. Pretty.The kind of daughter every mother imagined.
Even though they'd never spoken, the framed family photos on the desk and the stories others told painted a clear picture:This was a good kid.
Now she lay pale and damp with sweat, her brow furrowed even in unconsciousness.It tugged at her heart.
"She needs an antipyretic injection," she said gently. "And rest. Preferably a full day of sleep."
Sebastian gave a short nod.
He didn't speak. Just stood aside to let her work.
But he didn't leave.
Throughout the procedure, he remained at the foot of the bed—A shadow. Unmoving. Watchful.
She knew it wasn't about trust.It was about control.Over every decision.Even the needle type. Even the arm chosen for injection.
Once done, she adjusted the blanket over Liliane and stood."She'll be very weak when the fever breaks. She'll need to eat."
"I'll handle it," Sebastian replied coolly.
She paused. Studied him.Then added, quieter this time:"This child… she's not like the others. Be careful how you handle her. Or you'll break her."
He said nothing.Just sat down again.
Once she left, silence returned.
He looked down at Liliane.Her cheeks, flushed with heat, were still ghostly pale beneath.Her brows—gently furrowed, caught in some fevered nightmare.
He leaned forward, fingertips brushing the back of her hand.
"You really think… that passing out is enough to escape me?"His voice was low, coaxing, almost amused.Like someone indulging a child's tantrum.
"Then you've underestimated me."
The medication kicked in quickly.
Within minutes, the tension in her brow softened.Her breathing, once sharp and uneven, began to steady.
The room turned too quiet.
Quiet like a dream.
She wasn't sure if she was awake.
Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy.Her throat couldn't form a sound.Her body felt submerged—adrift in a haze of warmth and cold,as if floating in water that couldn't decide if it wanted to burn or freeze her.
But she felt someone near.
Not a nurse.Not a guard.
Him.
She didn't need to open her eyes to know it.
That breath—slow, repressed, familiar.
Like a star that refused to shine—distant, but inescapably present.
A cool cloth was pressed gently to her forehead.A palm hovered near her cheek… then settled on her hand.
Warm.
But not the kind of warmth that comforts.The warmth of possession. Deliberate. Certain.
He's here again, she thought, somewhere in the fog of her mind.
She tried to open her eyes. But her lids were made of lead.
All she could do was listen, as his voice whispered against her ear:
"Be good. Don't move."
Soft. Gentle. Almost afraid to wake something.
But it only pulled her closer to the surface.
"Just a little longer."
"I'll make you see… being sick isn't so bad."
She wanted to resist. But her body wouldn't obey.
She lay frozen. Powerless.
He must have felt her struggle.
Because he gave a low laugh—the same tone he always used when indulging her.
"I'm not someone you need to be afraid of."
"I just want you to stop… running away from me like this."
At the word run, his fingers curled slightly.
Just enough pressure to remind her.
She wanted to scream—Get away, Don't, You're not—
But no sound came.
Only her heartbeat thudded, slow and thick with pain.Buried under the haze of fever and sweat.Wrapped in something she couldn't name.
And that feeling—
Of being taken care of.
Even when she knew something was wrong.
It lulled her into a strange, soft calm.
Like a child finally allowed to collapse.Like a patient whose defenses had been dulled by kindness.
He looked down at her, now resting quiet and still.Her face on the pillow, serene like porcelain.
His eyes held a trace of lust. A touch of pity.
But far more than that—An unwavering, consuming desire to possess.
Not just to control.Not just to protect.
Something deeper.Darker.
Like a collector admiring a rare object—Not for its beauty.But for the fact that it now belonged to him. Entirely.
He watched her chest rise and fall—slowed by drugs, softened by fever.
The damp strands of hair clinging to her temples.The faint pink flush across her cheeks.The stillness that only came when all resistance had been stripped away.
It stirred something in him.
Not hunger, exactly.But a kind of aching intimacy.
A need to press closer.To ensure she never wandered too far—not even in her thoughts.
He leaned in, eyes tracing the lines of her face,memorizing them for what felt like the thousandth time.
"Good."
"You're starting to behave."
A smile touched his lips.
Not wide. Not showy.Just a slight curve—gentle, indulgent.But tinged with obsession.
To him, she wasn't just lying there because of the fever.
She was finally still.
Finally quiet.
And that silence…That was the closest thing to obedience he'd ever gotten from her.
He brushed a knuckle along her jaw, slow and light.As if testing the surface of something fragile. Forbidden.
"You don't need to disappear like this," he whispered.
"No more hiding inside yourself."
His voice dropped lower—barely audible.Not meant for anyone else to hear.The way a man might speak to something already his.
"I'm right here."
"And I'm not going anywhere."
The fever had soaked through her nightdress.The thin fabric clung to her skin like wet paper.Each breath she took pulled slightly at it,a subtle friction between damp cloth and warm flesh.
She lay still—temples damp,the skin between her collarbone and throat flushed with a sickly hue.
Like a flower left too long in the sun.Fragile. Withering. Beautiful in the way only something delicate could be.
And he…He was the gardener who refused to let it wilt—Even if it meant cutting off the sunlight.Even if it meant caging it in glass.
Because if she broke,She'd break in his hands.
And that—That was the only way he'd ever let her go.
It wasn't the glow of health—but the pallor of overheating, the exhaustion of a body pushed too far.
Sebastian looked down at her, unmoving.His gaze swept over her—not with greed, but with a tightening sense of control.As if watching something that had finally worn down, its edges dulled by time.
He leaned in, palm resting gently on her back,where the fabric clung to her so wet it could be wrung out.
She shivered faintly under his touch.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured.
As he spoke, his fingers slipped beneath her collar, trailing along the curve of her shoulder.Not groping—just testing, deliberate.Checking her fever, or perhaps… something else.
Her skin, oversensitized from the fever, flinched at even the softest contact.Beneath the covers, her fingers curled slightly—a reflex she didn't notice.But he did.
He leaned closer, his voice barely brushing her ear.
"Still not used to me?"
The words landed like mist—light, but chilling.Her cheeks burned hotter.
She couldn't respond—her breathing was already faltering.
He peeled the soaked nightdress from her—not forcefully,but with the slow precision of someone handling something breakable.The fabric made soft sounds as it slid from her skin,each one brushing against the rhythm of her unsteady breath.
Her skin lay bare to the air—fever-flushed, almost innocent.
He didn't gawk.He didn't linger.
But the focus in his eyes was too intense to feel safe.
He reached for a clean towel, dipped it in warm water,and began wiping her down—inch by inch.Shoulders. Back. The fine sheen of sweat on her chest.
Each movement precise. Gentle.Too gentle.
It didn't feel like tending to a patient.It felt like… cherishing.
In her fevered half-dream, shame began to surface.
Her mind tried to surface.But every time it rose, it was pressed down again.
She was turned. Supported. Dressed like a child.
A soft gray gown replaced the soaked one—snug, but not constraining.
He buttoned it for her.Fingers brushing her collarbone.Smoothing fabric over her chest like sealing the last line of defense.
"Be good," he whispered near her ear."When you're better… we'll settle this."
Her fever hadn't broken.But her body was no longer her own.Temperature, fabric, contact—every detail now obeyed his will.
She hadn't run.She had been… properly cared for.
What brought her back wasn't pain.It was warmth.
Not full awareness—Just a slow ascent, like rising from deep water.
Her lashes clumped together, heavy with sweat and sleep.Her body still burned, but not the same way.
She felt softness—clean fabric clinging to skin, carrying a faint scent that wasn't hers.
This wasn't the nightdress she remembered.
A ripple passed through her.
Disjointed fragments surfaced:a voice whispering near her ear,fingers sliding across damp skin,a towel on her back—
Vivid. Disturbing. Real.
Her face flushed—not from fever, but from the shame that came too late.
She didn't open her eyes.She didn't need to.Her skin still remembered:the cloth pulled down her spine,the warm towel across her shoulders,his fingers calmly pressing the last button shut.
He had seen her.Not just her body—but the part of her she never showed anyone.
Her fingers curled tighter beneath the blanket,trying to hold onto something—or maybe vanish into herself.
"Awake?"
The voice was close. Gentle. Rough.
Not a question. A quiet acknowledgment.
Her heart stumbled.He knew.
She didn't move. Didn't answer.But he felt it.
"Don't pretend," he said, even softer now."Your lashes moved."
She finally opened her eyes.For a second—panic.
"You... changed my clothes?"
Her voice was raw, barely audible.
He didn't lie.Just nodded, calm as still water.
"You were soaked," he said."With a fever like that, you could've gone hypothermic."
"I was only taking care of you."
Only.
That word struck her like a slap.Because she knew it wasn't only.
He had touched every inch of her,not violating—but removing choice.
She turned away from his gaze.
But his hand rested on hers. Pressing gently.
A silent:Don't resist.
"You're clean now.Your fever's down.You're feeling better, aren't you?"
Yes.Her body was better.
But she felt worse.
Like a flower pulled from the mud—whole, but soaked in someone else's scent.
"Did you... do anything else?"
Her voice cracked.
He tilted his head slightly.Not smiling.
"Other than take care of you?"
He moved closer.
"I did nothing.You can trust me."
Trust.It came so gently—like a hand reaching for something fragile.
But her spine went cold.
Not because of what he'd done.But because he didn't have to.
He had patience. Warmth.Enough tenderness to convince her she needed him.
Exactly when she was weakest.
She lay still. Eyes glassy with unshed tears.
He reached for the blanket and pulled it up,brushing her shoulder lightly.
"Don't be afraid. I'm here."
And in that moment—
She didn't know what scared her more.Him?Or the part of her that had started to feel safer in his presence.
She bit her lip.
His fingers settled at her collarbone, pressing down—gently.
"I've always been here."
That sentence stole her breath.
Her eyes fluttered shut.Lashes trembling.
But the images kept coming.
An empty house.Distant voices saying, "Take care of yourself."Nights in the hospital, alone.Thermometers. Sports drinks. Crumpled pill packets.
She had never imagined waking up sick—and finding someone beside her.
And this—
This was the first time since her parents died.
The first time someone undressed her fevered body,wiped her down,dressed her again—carefully, completely.
The first time she woke not to a blank ceiling—but to him.
So close she could almost hear the flutter of his lashes.
Her chest tightened.
The tears came.
Not from shame. Not from fear.
But from a tenderness that arrived too late.
She turned away, trying to hide how helplessly she was crying.
But his hand came uninvited—thumb brushing the corner of her eye.A movement too practiced.Too unthinking.
As if they'd done this before.
"Why are you crying?" he asked quietly.
She couldn't answer.
Her throat was tight.Words failed her.
He studied her for a moment.Then, slowly, gently—
"Did I scare you last night?""I'm sorry, okay?""Are you still feeling sick?""Or… has it just been too long since someone cared for you like this?"
Her breath caught.
"You've been holding on alone for too long."
No pity.No drama.
Just a statement.
And it shattered her all over again.
She wanted to say I'm fine.To default to her usual walls.
But no words came.
Her fingers curled tightly in the blanket.
He didn't push.Just took her hand—warm, dry, steady.
For the first time, she didn't wake up alone.
Someone said, You're clean now. I changed your clothes.
And she didn't feel shame.She felt… held.
Not abandoned.
Even if only for now.
But she also knew—
He wasn't her father.Not her family.
His care came with shadows.His tenderness carried control.
And still—She couldn't resist.
That was what scared her the most.
Tears slipped down silently.
She let him hold her hand.Like it was the only anchor left.
She never imagined she could feel warmth—in the arms of a man like him.
Wrapped in lambswool.Toes tucked in.Everything soft. Everything clean.
Even the scent clinging to the blanket was unfamiliar—fresh linen… and him.
And somehow, it calmed her.
He helped her sit up.
A bowl of broth was brought over.Beef and bone.Rich. Fragrant. Hot—but not too hot.
She wasn't hungry.Not really.
But the spoon came anyway.
He fed her—slow, steady, silent.
Every movement deliberate.The spoon never once scraped her lips.
She wanted to refuse.She didn't.
His quiet gaze made it impossible.
One mouthful. Then another.
By the end, the bowl was empty.
He wiped her mouth with a folded cloth.
"Take your medicine," he said."Then rest."
She nodded faintly.
The meds kicked in fast.
Her body sank.Pillows caught her.Sleep took her.
She never noticed—
He never left.
Sebastian closed the file he'd been reading.Set it down.
Watched her.
Then adjusted the thermostat.Fetched another blanket.
He lay beside her—slow, careful.
Slipped an arm around her.
Pulled her close.
His breath near her ear.His lips brushed her forehead.
"Be good," he whispered."I'm here."
She didn't hear it.
But he knew—Her body would remember.
Because this wasn't love.It was conditioning.
Liliane's tears told him more than words ever could.
She didn't fight.She didn't run.
She softened.
That was enough.
He never forced.
He filled—the absences, the silences, the voids.
Until resistance dulled into habit.
Not love.
Dependency.
Love could be undone.
Dependency couldn't.
Even if she left one day—She would remember this:
She didn't pull her hand away.
He never conquered.He replaced.
Choice, freedom, space—
He let her think they were hers.
So when the lock clicked shut—She'd believe it was her own hand that turned the key.