Chapter 11
1153words
This day, when Julian delivered Leo's daily report, Emma stopped him.
"I need things," her voice was hoarse from lack of use, yet carried a spark that refused to be extinguished.
Julian looked at her expressionlessly, "The master has already provided everything you need."
"I need 'my' things," Emma met his gaze. "I am not a corpse. I cannot just sit here waiting to die. I need painting supplies. Canvas, paints, easel. Otherwise, you might as well kill me now."
Julian silently weighed his options, the air stagnant. Finally, he nodded slightly: "I will convey your request."
That night, a set of top-grade art supplies was silently delivered to her. Elias seemed to have tacitly approved her request, perhaps pleased to see this harmless "pastime," viewing it as a docile signal that she was beginning to "settle in."
But he was wrong. This was Emma's declaration of war.
Two days later, when Elias walked into the room, Emma was standing in front of an easel, her back to him.
He approached slowly, his gaze falling upon the canvas, and paused.
It was an image that made one's soul tremble. A goldfinch with colors so brilliant they bordered on the bizarre, trapped in an intricately detailed and morbidly ornate golden cage. It wasn't singing; its slender neck twisted at an angle as if broken, its beak frantically pecking away at its own bloodied feathers, one by one, as if trying to strip away its beautiful coat along with flesh and blood. The background was an impenetrably thick darkness, like congealed blood.
In the corner of the painting, there was a line written in deep red paint—with a viscous texture resembling freshly dried blood—that read: "What you taste will only be poison."
Elias gazed at the painting for a long time, the contours of his profile appearing cold and rigid in the interplay of light and shadow.
Contrary to Emma's expectation, he didn't fly into a rage. He just became extremely quiet, as if all emotions were compressed to the extreme, turning into a dangerous vacuum.
"Poison." He softly repeated the word, the final syllable gliding through the air like a snake's tongue, carrying a strange, almost playful tone.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" Emma suddenly turned around, her hands stained with colorful paint, like a warrior's medal, "A pet that's rotting from the inside. Did you think by keeping me locked up here, you could produce 'happy' blood for yourself? You insatiable parasite!"
She thought she would hear her brother Leo's name being thrown out as a shackle once again.
But Elias just slowly turned his head, his icy gaze like tangible chains, instantly coiling around her, rendering her immobile.
"Are you threatening me, Emma?" His voice was low, yet carried a magnetic resonance.
"I'm just stating the facts." Emma forced herself to straighten her back, keeping her voice from trembling. "You cannot force me..."
"No." Elias interrupted her. He approached slowly, each step seeming to fall between heartbeats. That invisible pressure made it difficult for Emma to breathe. "You are threatening me. With this... bloody masterpiece, you're telling me that you will hurt yourself. You will starve yourself, you will self-harm... you will use every means to 'contaminate' your blood, isn't that right?"
Emma froze. She hadn't expected him to interpret it from this angle. But she refused to surrender.
"This is my body," she said, biting her lower lip, going along with his assumption.
"Your body?"
Elias laughed. That smile wasn't ostentatious, it even carried a trace of what seemed like pity, but in his eyes churned cruel and cold tides, filled with absolute mockery.
"No, Emma." He swiftly reached out, his slightly cool fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up and meet his inhuman golden eyes. His thumb gently caressed the soft skin of her jawline with a spine-chilling intimacy. "From the moment you signed the contract, you've completely misunderstood the relationship between us."
"You think death is your trump card? You think self-harm is your final weapon?" He leaned closer, his breath like the cold winter wind carrying the scent of cedar, brushing against her cheek. Those golden eyes held no ordinary anger, only pure, superior "possession."
"You are too naive, my dear."
He suddenly grabbed her wrist, roughly dragging her toward the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, pressing her entire body against the cold glass. Her back was tightly pressed against the hard transparent barrier, while in front of her loomed his overwhelming figure, leaving her nowhere to escape.
"Listen carefully, my Anam Cara." He whispered in her ear, his voice extremely low, "Your brother's life isn't even my strongest bargaining chip."
"If you dare to harm 'my' property—" With his other hand, he slowly traced a finger from her collarbone to the warm pulse on the side of her neck with a slow, possessive force, "If you dare to contaminate my food with starvation or razor blades... I won't let you die."
Emma's pupils contracted sharply.
"I will keep you alive." His voice took on a morbid, almost pleasurable twist, "I will make you watch, fully conscious and missing nothing, as Leo's treatment is cut off, as he withers day by day, begging you. But this," he paused, his lips almost touching her ear, "is merely the beginning."
"Then," he leaned in closer, his nose almost touching her temple, his breath entwining with hers, "I will take you to the edge of death, let you fully taste its flavor. Then, I will transform you."
Emma's breathing completely halted, her chest gripped by an invisible hand.
"I will force immortality upon you," he said, enunciating each word with absolute power that branded itself onto her soul, "I will turn you into a monster like me, a creature forever tormented by thirst, yet forever unable to escape me. You will live as my failed, 'contaminated' collection piece in my deepest cellar, dependent on every drop of blood I bestow upon you, until the end of time."
He released his grip, took a step back, elegantly adjusted his unwrinkled cuffs, and then leisurely admired the complete collapse of color from her face as she helplessly slid down the cold glass and crumpled onto the carpet.
"Now, tell me," he lowered his gaze, coldly looking down at her as if her soul had been extracted, "Do you still want to serve me your 'poison'?"
Emma's mouth hung open, her throat feeling as if blocked by scalding gravel, unable to produce any sound.
She had lost. Lost completely and utterly.
All her paths of resistance—from struggle to compromise, even including death—had been thoroughly and mercilessly blocked by this devil who was a master of control.
