Chapter Text
The silk of the collar was too heavy. Everything was too heavy now.
Mob lay motionless on his back, his eyes fixed on the precise intersection of dark oak beams crossing the ceiling. He counted them, one, two, three, four, until the wood grain blurred into swirling, hungry shapes. If he turned his head, his neck muscles seized in a sharp, blinding spasm that sent white-hot agony racing down his spine, so he stayed still. He stayed as still as a corpse.
He had been a corpse. He remembered that much.
He remembered the blissful, pristine cold of the deep stone floor. He remembered the quiet that had settled over his mind when he finally took that final, desperate leap into the dark, a desperate act to carve himself out of Verity’s suffocating, endless shadow. The silence had been so pure. No breathing behind him. No sudden, possessive hands catching him by the elbow. No soft, terrifying voice whispering into his hair that they were meant to be locked together forever.
He had escaped. He had won.
Then came the pulling.
It hadn't felt like a light; it had felt like a meat hook driven through his ribcage, hauling him backward through miles of crushed glass and burning ash. Verity had reached into the dark, shoved his bare hands into the abyss, and dragged Mob back by the hair, kicking and screaming into a broken, ruined shell.
The bedroom door clicked open.
Mob’s breath hitched, a faint, wheezing rattle in his chest. His heart, that terrible, unwanted organ, began to hammer wildly against his ribs, frantic and erratic.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, unhurried.
"You're awake," Verity’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't loud. It was never loud. It was a low, smooth purr that made the fine hairs on Mob’s arms stand up in primal terror.
Verity crossed the room, the hem of his dark coat whispering against the rug. He set a heavy silver tray down on the bedside table with a dull thud. The scent of boiled herbs, bitter medicine, and rich beef broth filled the room, instantly making Mob’s stomach turn.
"Look at me, sweetheart," Verity murmured softly.
Mob kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. He tried to lock his jaw, tried to build a fortress out of his own silence, but his hands betrayed him. Beneath the thick velvet duvet, his fingers began to twitch violently, a lingering, permanent tremor from the dark alchemy Verity had used to stitch his nervous system back together.
A pale hand entered Mob’s field of vision. Long, thin fingers, stained faintly with dried ink and dark, oxidized elder-runes, reached out. Verity’s thumb brushed gently over Mob’s cheekbone.
Mob flinched, a violent, involuntary jerk that sent a spike of agony through his weak back muscles. He let out a choked gasp, tears instantly pricking the corners of his eyes.
"Shh, shh..." Verity chided softly, his tone dripping with a sickening, maternal softness. He slipped his hand behind Mob’s neck, cupping his skull with terrifying gentleness, and forced Mob’s head to turn. "Don't fight it. You know what happens when you strain yourself. Your body isn't built for anger anymore, Mob. I had to compromise to bring you home."
Finally, Mob was forced to look at him.
Verity looked hollowed out, but triumphant. Dark, purplish bruises hung beneath his bright, unblinking eyes, testament to the weeks he had spent awake, surrounded by forbidden texts, blood, and decaying tallow, working to reverse what Mob had done. But despite the exhaustion, Verity was smiling. It was a small, razor-thin smile of total, undisputed ownership.
"You were so selfish," Verity whispered, his face hovering mere inches from Mob’s. His breath was warm against Mob’s cold skin. "So impossibly, cruel and selfish. You thought you could just... step out? Leave me here alone in the quiet? Did you really think a little tumble into the dark would keep you from me?"
"Let... me..." Mob’s voice came out as a shattered rasp, barely loud enough to disturb the dust in the air. His vocal cords felt shredded, dried up like dead leaves. "...go..."
Verity’s smile didn't fade; it widened just a fraction, dark amusement glittering in his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Mob’s trembling temple.
"Go where?" Verity asked softly, pulling back just far enough to look into Mob’s panicked eyes. "Look at you, my love. You can't even sit up."
To prove his point, Verity reached down and pulled back the heavy duvet.
Mob swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He tried. God, he tried so hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and commanded his legs to move, just a twitch, just a kick, anything to strike out at the monster looming over him. But nothing happened. Below his waist, his body was dead weight, heavy and unresponsive, bound by shattered nerves that refused to fire. The frustration and horror pooled in his throat, bursting out in a small, pathetic sob.
"See?" Verity coaxed, his fingers trailing down Mob’s arm, wrapping around his trembling wrist. He lifted Mob’s hand effortlessly, letting it flop uselessly in the air before laying it gently back on the bed. "You belong right here. I had to rebuild you, piece by piece. Your legs... well, the void took its tax, didn't it? But it's better this way. Now you won't be tempted to run away again."
"You're... a monster," Mob wept, a hot tear slipping down his temple into his hair.
"I'm the only reason you're breathing," Verity corrected sharply, a sudden, cold edge slicing through his gentle demeanor. He gripped Mob’s chin, his fingers tightening just enough to bruise, forcing Mob to look at the dark intensity in his gaze. "I gave up pieces of my own soul to bind yours back to this flesh. You will not disrespect that sacrifice, Mob. You are going to sit here, you are going to let me fix you, and you are going to learn how to love me properly this time."
Verity released his chin, the soft mask slipping back into place as if the dark threat had never existed. He reached for the bowl of broth on the tray.
"Now," Verity said, blowing gently on a wooden spoon filled with hot soup. "Time to eat. Open up."
Mob clamped his mouth shut, turning his face away as far as his ruined neck would allow.
Verity sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. He set the spoon down, and before Mob could comprehend what was happening, Verity shifted his weight, climbing onto the bed. He straddled Mob’s useless thighs, pinning him beneath his weight without pressing hard enough to cause physical harm, just enough to make Mob feel utterly, completely trapped.
Verity’s hands slid beneath Mob’s upper back, lifting his limp upper body with effortless strength and pulling Mob against his chest. Mob’s head rolled back onto Verity’s shoulder, completely unable to support its own weight. He was wrapped in Verity’s arms, bathed in his warmth, smelling the copper and ink on his clothes.
"I can do this the easy way, or I can hold your nose until you have to swallow," Verity murmured softly into Mob’s ear, his hand cradling Mob’s cheek, holding his face steady. "Don't make me hurt you, Mob. I hate hurting you. I spent so long putting you back together."
A shudder racked Mob’s frame. He felt the terrifying truth settling deep into his bones. There was no rescue coming. There was no escape. The death he had fought so hard to reach had been stolen, stripped away, and replaced with a living nightmare where he couldn't even feed himself.
Tears spilled continuously over Mob’s cheeks. Defeated, exhausted, and utterly broken, he let his jaw slacken.
"Good boy," Verity purred, touching his lips to Mob’s neck as he reached for the spoon with his free hand. "Such a good boy for me."
As the hot broth was fed to him, spoon by agonizing spoon, Mob stared at the dark oak beams on the ceiling. Verity held him tight, pressing him close, humming a soft, twisted lullaby into his hair.
Mob was back. He was alive. And he was never, ever going to be free again.