I passed him, letting out my held breath as quietly as I could. His deep, amused chuckle followed me, wrecking the rhythm of my heart.
I didn’t hear him move from where he was for a while, and when he finally did, he didn’t hurry up to catch up with me. He stayed behind me, letting the weight of his gaze brand itself between my shoulders.
Crater Sites and Celestial Myths: A Geological Re-examination of the Nimorran Cataclysm.
My cursor blinked behind the full stop for the hundredth and fourth time—yes, I counted—while my hand stayed glued on the delete key. I’ve had this dance four times now. I would open my laptop, stare at the document then slam it shut after a while because it was hard to say goodbye to the curiosity that’d lived with me since I knew myself. I thought I would get answers coming here.
Ugh.
What was I supposed to write now? Weeny Man was nowhere to be found, and he was the only one I knew who understood the history and Nimorran—
Hold on.
Weeny Man wasn’t the only one who knew Nimorran so well. Thrax knew about the Pylath. He was the only one who knew about it. He must know things, stuffs even Weeny Man didn’t.
He should know Crater-related topics.
That thought slapped a new pulse into my brain. I set the laptop aside on the kitchen counter and moved away, my socks padding lightly against the wood floor as I took the stairs two at a time.
On the landing, I paused.
The bathroom door was shut, and the sound of running water pulsed through the hallway. He was in there.
I couldn’t ask him yet. I rolled my eyes so hard it might’ve cracked something behind them. “Great,” I muttered under my breath, almost groaning. Turning around, I hopped two steps down—
But then I stopped.
An improper idea—utterly unethical, wildly unwise, and probably felonious, something I shouldn’t do—slid into my brain. He wasn’t in his room, he was in the bathroom. Which meant…
I could go through it. His room. Not for anything serious. Not really. I just needed a glimpse, a proof or something solid to convince my mind to be more wary of him. Try as I might, my body was beginning to relax around him.
I turned carefully this time, my hand trailing the wall as a small smile tugged the corner of my mouth. Quietly, I walked back up, eased his bedroom door open, and slipped inside.
The untouched looking room greeted me. There was not a sock out of place, not a sheet rumpled. The air smelled of that eerie blend of cedarwood and cold smoke that invaded my senses around him.
The entire space was spotless. Books on the desk were arranged by size and spine height. His pillows were positioned in a perfect diagonal. I could practically imagine him smoothing over them, tucking away every wrinkle.
Did he have a dirt disorder?
I moved to the wardrobe and opened it slowly. Inside, his dark coats hung neatly, and I dipped my hands into each pocket, fingertips skimming over keys, coins, and scraps of paper with notes scribbled in a language I didn’t recognise.
The drawers came next. I was careful not to scatter anything. Not because I cared if he noticed, but because I knew he would. A hair out of place, and he’d know someone had been here.
But I wasn’t looking for anything specific. Just…anything. Something that would tell me I was right to be afraid of him.
But there was nothing.
Nothing except order and discipline that could easily double as obsession. Or control.
I was halfway through sliding the last drawer shut when the bathroom door creaked open.
I froze.
Then unfroze in a manic burst of oh-fuck energy as my brain went full animal-in-a-cage mode.
There was nowhere.Nowhere.
My eyes darted—under the bed? Too low. Behind the curtain? Too thin. Under the desk? Not unless I wanted to greet him with my arse first.
