Chapter 7: The Choice Between The Door And The Window
The bedroom door remained closed, but it no longer felt like a boundary. It was a flat surface between me and whatever waited beyond it, and Adrian stood close enough to reach it before I could. Dante occupied the other side of the room, watching the hall through the narrow gap beneath the door as if danger could cast a shadow there.
I kept one hand over the back of my gown. The ivory fabric had been pulled high enough to hide most of the bruises, but every movement reminded me that the marks were still there. They burned beneath my palm without heat. The city glittered beyond the window, bright and distant, offering no route I could trust.
Adrian shifted when I looked at the door.
He did not speak. He only moved between me and the handle.
That small action made the choice for me. If I stayed where I was, I would be protected according to his plan. If I crossed the room, I would at least decide where my body went next.
I turned toward the window.
Adrian’s attention followed immediately. His arm lowered from the door, but his posture tightened. He did not grab me. He did not block my path. Instead, he took one measured step to the side, keeping himself between the door and the room while leaving the space in front of me open.
The permission felt almost like another trap.
I walked anyway.
The train of my gown whispered over the floorboards. I kept my eyes on the glass and counted the steps because counting was easier than looking at either man. At the window, I found the latch beneath the curtain and wrapped my fingers around it.
The metal was cold.
Dante crossed the room before I could lift it. His hand did not touch mine. He leaned close to inspect the frame, then the lower track, then the narrow section of wall beside the curtains. His expression changed by degrees—not fear, not surprise, but the hard concentration of someone finding a problem where I had expected an exit.
He pointed to the window.
The lower latch had been disturbed. A thin crescent of pale dust marked the sill, broken by a darker smear. Beneath the smear lay a short strand of black thread caught in the metal.
I stared at it.
The thread matched nothing I could identify, yet it was not part of the curtain. It had been pulled tight against the latch, as if someone had tested the window and caught on the mechanism.
Dante looked from the mark to the floor beneath it. Then he pointed toward the interior passage.
His meaning was clear enough. Opening the window would not take me out unseen. It would announce movement to anyone watching from outside, and the frame might already have been handled. The route I had chosen could expose the room, the evidence on my back, and everyone standing inside it.
Adrian came nearer. He stopped beside me, leaving a careful distance between us. His eyes fixed on the thread, then on the bruises hidden beneath my hand. He reached past me—not touching my skin—and drew the curtain fully closed.
The city disappeared.
For one second, I hated him for taking away the only open view. Then I saw what he had done. The glass was no longer a mirror for anyone beyond it. The room became smaller, but less visible.
Dante crouched near the sill. He examined the thread without removing it. After a moment, he looked toward the bedroom door.
A faint sound came from the passage.
Not a knock. Not footsteps.
The soft scrape of something sliding along the other side of the door.
Adrian’s hand closed around the handle before it turned. Dante rose silently. I remained by the window, my palm still covering the bruises, while the black thread trembled in the latch.
May you like
The threat had not been outside after all.
It had already reached the house.
