Chapter 8: He Checks the Glass
The door didn't creak. It just moved.
I kept my eyes closed and counted my breaths. I'd been lying on my side for what felt like an hour, my phone pressed flat against my chest under the thin strap of my camisole, the two pills tucked into the seam of the fitted sheet where the mattress met the frame. The cabin's tungsten light buzzed low overhead, and the yacht rocked just enough to make the water in the glass on my nightstand shiver.
Adrian had left me alone after telling me to get some air. He'd stepped into the corridor and pulled the door ajar, that same calm watchfulness. I'd heard his shoes go soft down the hall. Then silence. Then his shoes again, closer this time.
He didn't call my name at first. He stood in the doorway. I felt the change in the air before I heard him. The dim light shifted as his shadow fell across the bed.
"Mara," he said quietly.
I didn't answer. I let my mouth stay slightly open, my breathing slow. I tried to remember how I'd breathed when I was actually sedated after my wisdom teeth, that slack, open kind of breath. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure it was moving the camisole.
He came closer. The floor creaked once under his weight. He was still in the black long-sleeve shirt. I could smell the faint clean scent of his soap and the glass of water he'd been holding.
He crouched beside the bed. I felt his hand before I saw it, the warmth of his fingers hovering near my face. Then he touched me.
Two fingertips lifted my eyelid.
I hadn't expected that. My whole body wanted to flinch, to pull back. I forced myself to stay loose. His thumb held the skin above my eyebrow, his index finger pulling gently up on my lid. Light hit my eye. I stared up at the blurred ceiling and tried to keep my gaze unfocused, empty. I didn't breathe for a second too long.
He let go. My eye closed on its own. I kept it closed.
He'd seen it. My eye hadn't rolled back. It had stayed fixed.
He shifted his hand to my wrist. He lifted it gently, his thumb finding my pulse. His silver watch clicked faintly against my skin. He held it there and counted. I tried to slow my heart with will alone and couldn't. It thumped fast and steady against his fingers.
"Your pulse is up," he murmured, more to himself than to me. His voice was still that calm, controlled tone. "You should be sleeping deeper by now."
He set my arm back down, careful, like he was putting something fragile back in place.
Then he moved to the nightstand.
I heard the faint clink of glass. He picked up the clear glass of water he'd left for me. I kept my eyes shut but I could picture it, the water level exactly where it had been when he'd handed it to me, the surface perfectly still.
He tilted it. Listened to it. He didn't drink.
He looked down into it for a long time. I heard his breath change, just a small catch.
"You didn't drink it," he said softly.
It wasn't a question. He set the glass down harder than he'd picked it up. Not a slam, just a definitive tap against the wood. The water sloshed.
He stood. He started searching.
He started with the nightstand drawer. He slid it open. I heard him move things inside, my lip balm, the small stack of hair ties, the paperback I'd brought. He felt under the drawer, fingers sweeping. He closed it.
Next the space between the bed and the wall where I'd tucked the seam. My stomach went cold. But he didn't feel that high. He checked under the pillow on his side, then lifted the corner of the sheet at the foot of the bed, as if I'd spit them out. He patted the duvet around my knees and feet, quick, efficient pats that stayed just polite enough to look like care if I woke up.
I didn't move. I kept my breathing even, my phone burning against my skin. If he pressed on my chest he'd feel the hard rectangle. He didn't. He stayed away from my body now, like he was trying not to wake me badly.
He went into the small bathroom. The light there was brighter. I heard the cabinet open, the trash can lid lift. He rustled the plastic. He was looking for white pills in a white trash bag. He came back empty-handed.
When he returned to the bedroom side, he stopped at the nightstand again and stared down at the glass. I cracked my eyes just enough to see through my lashes. He was holding it up to the light, swirling it, checking for residue at the bottom. The two scored pills should have left a faint cloud if they'd been dropped in. The water was clear.
His jaw tightened. For the first time that night his calm slipped. Not a lot, just a flattening at the corner of his mouth.
He looked back at me lying there. I let my eyes close fully again before he could catch the slit.
"My love," he said, his voice a little louder now. "Wake up, you need some air."
I didn't answer. I gave a small, sleepy exhale and turned my head a fraction deeper into the pillow, as if annoyed at being disturbed.
He watched me. I felt it for a long count, that heavy, evaluating stare. He was deciding whether I was faking.
He made his choice.
He didn't leave. He pulled the narrow chair from the desk in the corner, the one with the rattan back, and dragged it across the floor until it was beside the doorway, facing the bed. He sat down. He crossed one leg over the other. The silver watch caught the tungsten light.
"You're a light sleeper tonight," he said, almost kindly. "That's okay. I'll sit with you."
He settled back. He wasn't going to the hall anymore. He wasn't going to give me another window to call out. He was going to watch from inside the cabin, where he could see every breath I took.
May you like
The door stayed ajar behind him, but he was the one in it now.
I kept my eyes closed and breathed, and felt the hidden phone press harder against my chest with every inhale, and understood my margin had just closed to the width of this bed.
