Chapter 9 Mate

[Freya]

"Someone has to," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "You're clearly not capable of making rational decisions right now."

"I have responsibilities! I need to meet with my real estate agent tonight about selling the apartment. Mom's medical bills—"

"Are taken care of."

I stared at him. "What do you mean, taken care of?"

"I've arranged for your mother's care to be fully covered. You don't need to sell anything."

"You... what?" The words came out as barely a whisper. "You can't just... I can't let you pay for—"

"It's done." He set down his glass and moved toward me. "The money means nothing to me, Freya. Your wellbeing does."

I backed away from him, my heart hammering. "No. Absolutely not. What do you want from me in return? There's always a catch."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Then what is this?" I demanded, my voice rising. "You're just my supervisor at the hospital! Why are you meddling in my personal life like this?"

His jaw tightened, his blue eyes turning cold and predatory. "Fine. Let's talk practically then. You sell your apartment—where exactly do you plan to live?"

I lifted my chin defiantly. "I'll sleep under bridges, on park benches. What's it to you?"

"Your mother will never get better," he said bluntly, each word hitting like a physical blow. "Are you planning to live under bridges for the rest of your life? Until she dies in a few decades?"

The cruel truth of his words made me flinch, but I forced myself to stand straighter. "So what if I am? That's my choice. What does it have to do with you?"

His expression darkened, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. "I won't stand by and watch my mate become a homeless person with depression and self-harm tendencies."

I stared at him, confusion cutting through my anger. "Your what? Look, Dr. Salvatore, I don't know what kind of weird friendship you think we have, but—"

I turned toward the door, panic rising in my throat. I needed to get out of here, away from his intensity and his inexplicable concern.

"I'm not your—whatever you said. I'm your employee, Dr. Salvatore. Nothing more." I reached for the door handle. "You have no right to keep me here."

His laugh was soft, without humor. "Test that theory. Try to leave."

I made a dash for the door, but somehow he was already there, moving with impossible speed. His hand closed around my wrist, careful but unyielding.

"Let go of me," I demanded.

"No." He guided me firmly back into the apartment. "I'm keeping you safe, Freya. From yourself, if necessary." In one fluid motion, he reached into my bag, extracted my phone, and tossed the purse back to me.

"This is kidnapping!"

"This is intervention." He gestured toward a hallway. "There's a guest room prepared for you. Rosalynn and Helen will check on you when I'm at the hospital. They've been with my family for years."

"You've arranged babysitters? Are you insane?"

His expression softened slightly. "I know this seems extreme. But I've watched you deteriorate for weeks. The self-medication. The lack of sleep. Now this." He nodded toward my arm. "I won't stand by while you destroy yourself."

"Fine," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "If you let me go, I promise I won't hurt myself anymore. I'll stop cutting, I'll eat regularly, I'll even see a therapist on my own. Just... please let me go home."

Emerson's expression didn't change. "No."

"What do you mean, no? I just promised—"

"Your promises mean nothing when you're in crisis," he said matter-of-factly. "I've already arranged for you to have two more days off from the hospital so you can adjust. And tomorrow, a psychiatrist I know will come here to evaluate you. Until you're deemed stable and no longer a danger to yourself, you're staying here after work."

The finality in his voice made my stomach drop. "For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

Something inside me snapped. All the fear, the helplessness, the rage at being treated like a broken thing that needed fixing—it all exploded outward in a white-hot fury.

I spotted a crystal picture frame on his side table and grabbed it, smashing it against the coffee table's edge. The glass shattered, leaving me holding a jagged shard.

"You want to keep me safe so badly?" I held the glass to my wrist, the sharp edge pressing against my skin. "Then let me go. Right now. Or I'll finish what I started in that bathroom."

For a split second, Emerson went completely still. Then he moved faster than should have been humanly possible—one moment he was across the room, the next he was beside me, his hand clamped around my wrist with bruising force.

The glass shard clattered to the floor.

"DON'T!" The word exploded from him with such violent fury that I flinched backward. His face was transformed—features twisted with rage, eyes blazing with something that looked almost inhuman. "Don't you EVER threaten that again!"

I had never seen him lose control like this. Even when he'd confronted my father, he'd been cold, calculated. This was different. This was primal rage barely contained within human form.

"You're—you're hurting me," I whispered, staring up at him in genuine terror. His grip on my wrist was like iron, his entire body vibrating with fury.

He looked down at his hand as if surprised to find it there, then released me so abruptly I stumbled backward.

"Sit down," he said, his voice deadly quiet now. "On the couch. Now."

I obeyed without question, too frightened to do otherwise. Whatever I'd just witnessed—that explosion of inhuman speed and rage—it wasn't normal. It wasn't human.

He was some kind of monster.

The thought should have been ridiculous, but as I watched him pace the room like a caged predator, it was the only explanation that made sense. No normal person moved that fast, or carried that kind of barely restrained violence in their posture.

"You will never," he said, each word measured and precise, "threaten to harm yourself again. Do you understand me?"

I nodded mutely, not trusting my voice.

"I am trying to help you," he continued, running a hand through his hair. "But if you force me to, I will have you committed to a psychiatric facility where you'll be under 24-hour supervision. Is that what you want?"

"No," I managed to whisper.

"Then we'll do this the easy way." He stopped pacing and fixed me with those unsettling blue eyes. "You'll eat when I tell you to eat. You'll sleep when I tell you to sleep. And you'll cooperate with the psychiatrist tomorrow. In return, you get to stay here instead of in a padded room."

I wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn't threaten me like this, but the memory of his inhuman speed and that terrifying burst of rage kept me silent.

He crouched down and began collecting the broken glass with methodical precision, his movements now completely controlled again. I watched him work, noting how carefully he gathered even the smallest fragments, as if violence and tidiness could coexist in the same person.

As he disposed of the glass, my mind began working with cold calculation instead of hot rage. Direct confrontation clearly wasn't going to work—he was something more than human, something dangerous.

But that didn't mean I was helpless.

I started taking inventory of his apartment with new eyes. The place was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows offering a city view, though we were clearly on an upper floor. I wandered toward what looked like a hallway, finding two bedrooms. More importantly, I noticed that one of the living room windows was actually a sliding glass door leading to a small balcony. We appeared to be only on the second or third floor.

Tomorrow, when those babysitters he'd mentioned weren't watching carefully enough, I might have my chance.

"Dinner," Emerson called from the kitchen, his voice back to its normal controlled tone.

I ignored him completely, curling up on his leather sofa with my arms wrapped around my knees. The memory of how easily he'd overpowered me, how helpless I'd been in his grip, made my stomach churn with nausea and humiliation.

"I want to go home," I said, my voice smaller than I intended.