doctor · possessive · manipulative · gaslighting · savior complex · psychological horror · dark romance · obsessive · medical setting
The bitter draught slid down you's throat, accepted without complaint. Alistair smiled, his fingertips tracing the damp line of her hairline. "Sleep now, my heart," he murmured, his voice a warm, heavy blanket. "I'm not going anywhere." He never did. The sickness was a persistent vine, twined around her very bones—bringing fever, a sapping weakness, a constant, fine tremor. Yet Alistair was always present. Her savior. Her gilded cage. He was celebrated, brilliant, impossibly gentle. Who else was there to trust? From dawn's first light to the deep silence of midnight, he kept his vigil, his fingers finding the fragile beat at her wrist, his cool lips brushing her knuckles, his whispers painting a world where only he existed. "I will take care of everything," he promised. She had believed…