Chapter 2: The Door Adrian Refused To Open
Adrian did not move toward me.
That was the first thing I noticed after the last word left his mouth. He stayed near the bedroom door in his black tuxedo, one hand lowered at his side, his attention fixed on the fabric I had dragged over my shoulder. The room remained dim except for the city light spilling through the tall window. It cut across the floor, touched the bed, and stopped just short of his shoes.
I kept my back angled away from him. The gown had slipped again, exposing the edge of the bruising beneath the ivory fabric. My fingers closed over it at once. The material was smooth and cool, but my hand would not stop shaking.
He looked past me then, not at the window or the bed, but at the exits. His eyes moved from the bedroom door to the glass and back again. He was measuring distance. I could see it in the stillness of his shoulders and in the way his gaze paused at the narrow space beside the bed.
I understood what he was doing, and the understanding frightened me almost as much as his anger might have.
The window was too far away. The door was closer, but Adrian stood between it and me.
I moved anyway.
Keeping my left shoulder turned inward, I stepped around the foot of the bed. The gown caught against my ankle, and I nearly lost my balance. I caught the carved bedpost with my right hand and held there until the room steadied. From that position, I could keep the bruised side hidden behind the post while still seeing the door.
Adrian watched the adjustment. His expression did not soften. It changed only by a fraction, as if my choice had given him information he had not expected me to offer.
I wanted the door open. I wanted it locked. I wanted a space between me and everyone in the house.
Those wants had become impossible to separate.
A faint shift sounded beyond the bedroom. Not a voice. Not a knock. The floor gave a small, familiar creak somewhere on the other side of the door.
Adrian's head turned.
My grip tightened around the bedpost. The bruised skin pulled when I leaned forward, sending a sharp heat beneath my shoulder blade. I forced myself not to react. If someone was outside, I did not want them to hear pain in my breathing.
Adrian crossed the room without hurrying. He stopped several feet from the entrance, close enough to reach the handle but not touching it. His attention stayed on the thin line of darkness beneath the door.
Then he lifted one hand.
It was not a gesture toward me. It was a signal directed beyond the room.
At first, nothing happened. The silence seemed to expand around us. The city glittered through the window, distant and careless, while the bedroom held its breath.
A shadow passed across the strip beneath the door.
Adrian's raised hand closed once.
Somewhere outside, another floorboard answered. I saw the change in his posture before I could identify it: his shoulders squared, his chin lowered, and his body aligned with the entrance. He was no longer simply watching the door. He was preparing for it.
Dante appeared at the edge of the adjoining hall, visible only through the narrow gap beneath the door and the faint movement of shadow beyond it. His presence was silent, but unmistakable. A second figure had taken position outside, alert and ready, while Adrian remained inside between me and the entrance.
I could not tell whether that made the room safer.
The handle moved.
Slowly, carefully, it turned downward.
Adrian's hand reached for the lock, but he stopped before touching it. His eyes shifted to me. I stood behind the bedpost with one shoulder covered, my right hand braced against the wood, the window at my back and no clear path left except the door.
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The latch released.
The door began to open.
