Chapter 78: Your Hands Are So Small
Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Your Hands Are So Small
Chapter 78: Your Hands Are So Small
Cory sat at the far end of Daphne Whitlock’s couch with both hands tucked close to himself.
Daphne had not stopped trying to talk to him since he changed forms.
"Will you tell me what kind of rare-blood you are?" she asked.
Cory looked at her without answering.
Daphne did not seem offended by the silence. If anything, it made her more patient. She sat on the other end of the couch in loose home clothes, her expression softened into something almost harmless.
Cory had already learned not to trust that expression.
"You have such small hands," Daphne said, reaching toward him again. "Why are they so much paler than mine?"
He pulled them back before she could take them.
Daphne only smiled.
"Are they always this soft?" she continued. "Your fingers are cold. I could warm them up for you."
"I do not need that."
"You are very stubborn for someone who has been avoiding every question I ask."
Cory’s mouth tightened.
Daphne kept talking as though his discomfort was not visible.
She asked whether his white hair was natural. She asked whether he had always been able to change forms. She asked why his earring looked different when he was smaller. She asked if he had more clothes that fit this version of himself, then mentioned that she had a few outfits he could try if he wanted.
Cory stared at her.
"That is not happening."
Daphne rested her chin in one hand. "You might look cute in something warmer."
"You are making this worse."
The answer earned her a quiet laugh.
Cory’s hands curled into fists.
He wanted to hit her. He wanted to make a point so clearly that she would stop speaking to him like he was some novelty she had found and decided to keep.
The problem was that Daphne would probably enjoy the attention.
That possibility was enough to keep his fists where they were.
Daphne shifted closer.
"Can I hold you for a while?" she asked. "I will only hold you. I promised I would not do anything else."
Cory looked toward the apartment door.
The latch remained unlocked.
Daphne had made a performance of that earlier, leaving the lock untouched so he would know he could leave whenever he wanted. The choice should have helped. Instead, it made him more wary. She had learned exactly what frightened him after one night, and now she was using the lesson to make herself appear reasonable.
"I want to go home," he said.
"You live across the hall."
"I still want to go home."
Daphne let out a quiet breath, then leaned back again.
"It is late," she said. "You could stay here tonight. You would not have to walk ten steps back to your own apartment."
"I can manage the walk."
"That sounds exhausting."
Cory did not respond.
Daphne had a way of turning simple things into arguments. A bowl of soup became an invitation. Rent became a reward. A camera became a leash. Going home became a question she could make sound childish if she spoke about it calmly enough.
She kept him in the apartment until after ten-thirty.
Not by locking the door this time.
Not by raising her voice.
Daphne simply stayed too close, kept offering food, kept finding another question to ask, and kept acting as though there was no reason for him to leave yet. Every time Cory stood, she would touch his sleeve, gesture toward the couch, or mention something practical that made him hesitate.
It was softer than the night before.
It did not feel safer.
When Daphne finally stepped aside and let him go, Cory did not wait for her to change her mind.
He crossed the hall, entered his apartment, and shut the door behind him.
Daphne remained in her doorway until she heard the latch click.
Only then did she return to her own apartment.
She understood that pushing too hard would eventually break something.
Cyrus had not forgiven her. He had not relaxed around her. He had not accepted the food, the rent offers, or the unlocked door as proof that she had changed. He watched her hands, checked the exits, and treated every kind gesture as though it had teeth hidden underneath.
Daphne could not blame him.
That did not mean she intended to let him slip away.
She had the building cameras. She knew about Cory. She knew where Cyrus worked, where he slept, what he worried about, and how much money mattered to him. If she stayed patient and stopped forcing every answer out of him at once, he would eventually understand that being close to her came with benefits.
Meals.
Rent help.
Privacy.
Protection from anyone who might misunderstand what Cory was.
Daphne stood in the quiet hall for another moment before closing her own door.
She told herself she only needed to wait.
Someday, Cyrus might stop flinching when she reached for him.
The thought should have embarrassed her.
Instead, it left a faint smile on her face as she went back inside.
Across the hall, Cyrus lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.
Sleep refused to come.
The more he replayed the evening, the angrier he became.
Daphne had not locked him in this time. She had not forced him down or called the police. She had smiled, cooked for him, left the door open, and acted patient.
The entire performance had been obvious.
She was trying to make him lower his guard.
As though he would be fooled that easily.
Cyrus had survived too much already to confuse a softer tone with safety. Daphne could bring him meals, waive his rent, offer him money, and leave every door in the building unlocked. None of it changed the fact that she still had leverage over him.
She had the camera footage.
She was stronger than he was.
She knew exactly how afraid he was of the police getting involved.
That was enough to turn every polite offer into a threat.
Cyrus rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket higher.
The night had also made one thing painfully clear.
Staying in his normal form around Daphne was risky.
When he was full-sized, she seemed too willing to test how much force she could use against him. His smaller form carried its own dangers, but it had at least kept the evening from becoming another open struggle.
That thought did not make him feel better.
It only gave him a new reason to hate the situation.
He needed proof.
A camera inside his apartment would not solve everything, but it would give him something if Daphne crossed another line while she was in his space. A recording of her threatening him, using the rent against him, or trying to force his transformation would be better than standing alone with nothing but his word.
He could buy one tomorrow.
Then another problem hit him.
What if Daphne pulled him into her apartment again?
A camera in his room would not help him across the hall.
Cyrus stared into the dark.
That flaw sat in the middle of his plan like a hole in the floor.
He had no way to install a camera in Daphne’s apartment without being caught. He could not ask her for permission. He could not wander in with a bag and start attaching equipment to her furniture. He could not even hide one somewhere safely without creating a new problem if she discovered it.
The more he thought about it, the less useful the plan seemed.
Cyrus shut his eyes.
He would figure something out.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Sleep came without dreams.
Saturday morning arrived far too early.
Cyrus woke before sunrise with the familiar physical unrest already pressing against him. His body had resumed the cycle Frostborn suppressants were meant to control, restless and insistent in ways that made him feel like his own instincts were trying to outvote him.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the prescription bottle on the nightstand.
Four tablets disappeared with a glass of water.
The bottle felt lighter than it should have.
He had bought the pack recently, yet the tablets were disappearing too quickly. At this pace, the remaining medication would not last nearly as long as he needed it to.
Cyrus rubbed a hand over his face.
Rent might become free if Daphne kept making offers. That did not solve the prescription costs. The medication was still expensive, and he could not afford to burn through it every time his body decided to become a problem.
Skipping it was worse.
Without the suppressants, the reaction would eventually grow strong enough to interfere with his judgment. Frostborn instincts had a way of becoming louder when ignored, and Cyrus did not trust himself to make smart decisions once his body began pushing harder than his mind.
He took a long shower after the pills started working.
The water was warmer than he preferred, but the steam helped clear the restlessness from his head. By the time he dressed, the worst of it had faded enough that he could think without feeling irritated at the entire world.
Human medicine had come a long way.
Someone would eventually invent a stronger suppressant, one that did not require him to spend half his money every time his body acted up.
Cyrus had to believe that.
The alternative was admitting that the only place built to manage him might still be the black room he had escaped.
He refused to accept that.
At six in the morning, he checked the time again and started getting ready to leave.
Faye Larkin had invited him to her house later that morning. Her younger brother wanted someone to play games with, and Lena had apparently joined the request. Cyrus had also planned to buy a security camera before he went.
His apartment needed protection.
At least, it needed something that looked like protection.
He opened his door carefully and checked the hallway.
Daphne’s apartment was dark.
No waiting figure stood outside apartment 202. No food container sat on the floor. No quiet voice called his name from behind a half-open door.
Cyrus stepped into the hall and shut his door behind him.
Then he walked away quickly.
Saturday mornings in Grayhaven were quiet enough to feel unfinished. The streets held only a few delivery vans, early joggers, and shop owners lifting metal gates in front of small businesses. The air had cooled overnight, though the rising sun still carried enough warmth to remind him that October had not fully settled in yet.
Cyrus shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
He was still annoyed.
If Daphne had not spent the past two nights turning his apartment building into a trap, he could have stayed in bed longer. He could have slept until a reasonable hour, eaten something cheap, and headed to Faye’s house without calculating every possible exit from his own hallway.
Instead, he had fled before sunrise.
The situation was ridiculous.
How many times could he use the same trick?
If Daphne started waiting outside his door every morning, he could not keep escaping through the hall forever. At some point, he might have to use the balcony.
The building was only three stories high.
He could probably make the jump if he landed correctly.
Daphne had one apartment door and one hallway. Cyrus had a hallway and a balcony. Between the two options, he should be able to escape at least once.
That was not a comforting thought.
He had several hours before meeting Faye. The security-camera shops would not be open yet, and he had no intention of arriving at her house carrying a box labeled with surveillance equipment.
With nowhere useful to go, Cyrus wandered through the neighborhood.
Eventually, his feet carried him to the small park where he had first met Faye’s younger siblings.
The playground stood empty at this hour. A few benches faced the walking path, and the outdoor fitness area sat near a rope-climbing structure designed for children who had more energy than sense.
Cyrus stopped near the equipment and considered it.
Could he train hard enough to beat Daphne one day?
The thought lasted until he remembered how easily she had thrown him down in the entryway.
He had felt like a stray kitten in her hands.
How long would it take to overcome someone like that?
Cyrus did not have an answer.
The rope net looked more inviting than the exercise bars.
He climbed onto it, stretched out across the woven cords, and stared up at the pale morning sky. The net dipped beneath his weight, shifting gently whenever he moved.
His thoughts returned to the camera.
A hidden camera in his apartment might help him corner Daphne if she made another mistake. A recording could give him leverage. It could force her to back off, erase the footage, or at least stop treating his home like another room she controlled.
Her apartment remained the problem.
Cyrus could not put a camera there.
He could not force her to bring him into his own room every time she wanted something. He could not predict where she would choose to corner him next.
The situation had too many gaps.
A hesitant voice drifted across the park.
"Cyrus...?"