Abigail didn't run from the wedding.
She ran fromhim—whoever he is.
And her father knew. Her father was part of it.
So what stopped her from finishing that sentence?
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.
I shove the journal under my pillow, heart hammering. The door opens before I can arrange my face into anything resembling calm.
Devyn.
Of course it's Devyn. Who else would walk into my room without knocking, like privacy is a concept that simply doesn't apply to him?
He closes the door behind him. Takes two steps inside. Stops.
His golden eyes sweep over me. My position on the bed. My too-still posture. The way my hand is resting just a little too casually near the pillow.
He sees everything. He always sees everything.
"You went to the chapel."
He moves closer as he speaks. I should stand up, should put myself on more equal footing, but I don't trust my legs right now.
He stops at the edge of the bed. Looking down at me.
"And you found the passage," he says.
I could tell him. I could pull out the journal and hand it over. But until I understand what I'm dealing with, I don't know who to trust.
“What else did you find?”
"Nothing," I say. "Just a dark hallway. I didn't go far."
Devyn doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
He knows I'm lying.
I can see it in his face. And I know he knows. And this terrible awareness stretches between us.
But he doesn't push.
Instead, he reaches out.
His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up toward him. It's the same gesture he's used before. But this time his thumb traces along the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate, and I stop breathing entirely.
"You're keeping secrets," he says, and his voice has dropped to something low and soft. "From me."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Fourth time.
I'm still counting.
My pulse is doing something completely unreasonable. My skin is burning everywhere he's touching me, and everywhere he isn't.
Stop it, Bailey. Focus.
