0023 ~ Elodie ~ I trailed behind Logan, my footsteps silent against the plush carpet as we entered the master suite.
The vastness of the room felt oppressive, an gilded cage designed to stifle any hope of escape.
I watched as he drifted toward the foot of the bed, his movements disjointed and stiff, and sank down onto the edge of the mattress.
I closed the door behind me, the lock clicking with a finality that made my pulse jump.
I remained standing there, clutching the door handle for a moment, letting my gaze linger on him.
Anne’s voice drifted back to me, the words echoing through my thoughts like a recurring haunting: *”Mr.
Logan has lived an incredibly lonely life here.
So entirely isolated.
I believe that profound loneliness is a significant reason why his mind and body fell so ill, and why Mr.
Vincent became so desperate to secure a companion for him.”* I watched him quietly.
He was staring into the empty air, his expression blank, his posture slumped.
He looked profoundly lost—a man adrift in a sea of his own fragmented memories.
I took a slow, deliberate breath and walked closer, forcing a lightness into my demeanor that I was far from feeling.
“Is there anything you need, Logan?
Anything at all?” He turned toward me, his movements mechanical.
His eyes were devoid of any spark, a flat, grey horizon.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head with an exhausted, jerky motion before turning his gaze back to the empty space in front of him.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaving a careful distance between us.
I wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap, but the memory of how he had recoiled from my touch at the dinner table kept my hands firmly in my lap.
“What happened this morning…back here,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper, terrified that the wrong word might fracture his delicate state.
“You truly frightened everyone.” He didn’t respond.
He didn’t even blink.
He remained frozen, his eyes unfocused as if he were watching a film only he could see.
I stared down at my own feet, feeling the crushing weight of the silence.
“I’m sorry,” he finally croaked, the words ripped from the depths of his throat.
He paused, his hands tightening into fists.
“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to act…like that.” “It’s alright,” I said, leaning in slightly, my heart aching for the wreckage of a human being sitting next to me.
“I guess such thing happens.
I’m sorry you had to endure the feeling that triggered it.” “It’s not your fault,” he mumbled, his voice strained.
He reached up, digging his fingers into his scalp and rubbing his temples with desperate pressure.
“My head.
It always hurts.
It feels like a constant storm behind my eyes.” “I’m so sorry, Logan,” I said, my own chest tightening in empathy.
“Would you like to lie down?
Perhaps sleep will ease the pressure.” “No,” he refused.
The word came out as a ragged, pained gasp—a sound of raw internal misery.
“Then what do you want?
What would make you feel even a fraction better?” “I…I don’t know,” he confessed, his voice thinning out.
“I can’t think past the noise in my head.
I don’t know what I want anymore.” “It’s okay,” I whispered.
“Try not to think about anything.
Just be here.” He curled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and beginning to sway, a rhythmic, hypnotic rocking back and forth.
I watched him, a profound sense of sorrow washing over me.
He was a man held together by invisible, fraying threads.
What had turned him into this?
What horror had been inflicted upon him to leave his mind in such a state of ruin?
“I…are you comfortable being my wife?” His voice suddenly cut through the gloom, startling me.
I hesitated, struggling to find a balance between honesty and the need to protect him.
“I’m trying to adjust to the role,” I replied cautiously.
“To the title of being your wife.” “Is that all it is to you?” Logan slowly turned his head, looking at me directly for the first time.
His metallic grey eyes were wide, piercingly lonely, and weary.
“Just a title?” “Yes,” I admitted, the truth hanging heavy in the room.
“I’m sorry, but that is how it feels right now.
I feel like a placeholder in your life.” “It’s okay,” he said, his voice devoid of accusation.
“I don’t blame you.” He remained silent for a long moment, the only sound the muffled hum of the mansion’s climate control system.
“Would you like to tell me a little about yourself?” I asked, hoping to steer his mind toward a healthier path.
“I know my name is Logan.
I know I am Vincent’s brother.
I know I am a Lockwood.
I have—” He stopped, his brow furrowing as if he had hit an invisible wall.
“What is it?” I asked, leaning closer.
“I can’t remember anything else,” he said, the panic beginning to creep into his tone as he clawed at his forehead again.
“Nothing but those few labels.
Everything else is just…smoke.” I reached out, my hand hovering briefly before I dared to rest it on his shoulder to steady him.
He flinched violently, his entire body jerking away as if I had burned him.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his breath hitching.
“I’m just…I’m not used to people touching me.
Especially not that way.” “Don’t apologize,” I assured him quickly, pulling my hand back.
“It’s perfectly fine.” We sat in the quiet, the distance between us remaining vast despite the proximity of our bodies.
“Did…did he hurt you?” Logan asked suddenly, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“Who?
Vincent?” He nodded slowly.
“I saw what he did to you at the dinner table.
I saw the way he treated you.” I turned away, staring at the shadows dancing on the wall.
I didn’t want to talk about the cruelty, the ropes, or the absolute terror of the last few hours.
“I know what is on your mind, Elodie,” Logan whispered.
“He’s a monster, isn’t he?” I looked back at him, seeing the desperate, pleading clarity in his eyes—a flicker of the man he might have been before the Lockwoods destroyed him.
“He’s more than a monster, Logan.
He’s the devil himself.” “I believe you,” he replied simply.
Before I could add anything, a sharp, rhythmic rap sounded at the door.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my pulse spiking.
“Luca,” the voice boomed from the hall.
I stood up and crossed the room, unlocking the door.
Luca stood there with an impassive expression, holding a small silver tray with a single glass of water and two small, white pills.
I stared at the tray, then back at Luca, my suspicion mounting.
“Yes?” “Can I come in?
The boss sent me to deliver his brother’s nightly medication,” Luca said, his eyes shifting past me to where Logan sat.
I looked back at Logan, who was once again staring vacantly into the midair, then nodded toward Luca.
“Come in.” I moved aside, and Luca marched into the room with the clinical detachment of a prison guard.
“Time for your night pill, Mr.
Logan,” he announced.
Logan didn’t argue.
He didn’t protest.
He simply reached out, his hand shaking, and took the pills from the tray, washing them down with the water.
“What kind of medication is that?” I asked, my voice sharp.
“It is the regimen prescribed to him,” Luca replied, refusing to elaborate.
He bowed his head.
“Goodnight.” He turned and strode out, leaving the door slightly ajar.
I turned back to Logan.
He was already lying down, his eyes closing before I had even reached his side.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened into a rhythmic, unnatural pattern.
As I watched his chest rise and fall, the weight of the evening pressed down on me.
The pills were obviously meant to sedate, to keep him in this compliant, hollow state.
Something was profoundly wrong with everything about this household—the medicated husband, the monstrous brother, the constant surveillance.
I walked to the window and looked out at the dark, sprawling grounds of the estate.
I rubbed my throbbing temples, the cycle of fear and uncertainty repeating in my mind.
I was a prisoner in a house of ghosts, tethered to a man who couldn’t remember his own life, forced to submit to a monster who held my sister’s fate in his hands.
I closed my eyes, praying for a morning that might bring a glimpse of freedom, even as I knew the darkness would likely stay exactly where it was.