All I feel is the heat of her skin, and all I see is the look in her eyes when she saidDo it.
I lean heavily against the railing, staying still as time ticks by.
Five minutes. Maybe ten.
Who knows?
When the shivering starts, when my teeth begin to chatter from the cold, I force myself to turn around.
I walk back into the Tower.
Iris has moved. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me. She’s hugging a pillow to her chest. She doesn’t look up when I enter.
I can’t look at her.
I slide the balcony door shut.
My hands are shaking. The cold has made my fingers clumsy, and the adrenaline crash has left me jittery.
I push the glass flush with the frame, waiting for the heavy clack of the magnetic latch engaging before I walk away.
I cross the room to the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Iris asks.
“To the basement,” I say, not stopping. “To check the perimeter.”
“You’re leaving me here?”
“You’re safer alone,” I say. It’s the truth. She’s safer alone than she is with me right now. And she isn't going anywhere. The glass is bulletproof, the balcony is mag-locked, and the elevator requires my biometrics. The suite is a vault.
I hit the button. The doors open.
I step inside and press B1.
As the doors slide shut, I catch one last glimpse of her. A small figure in a big, dark room, surrounded by shattered glass and spilled whiskey.
I lean my head back against the wall of the elevator as it descends.
I’m a fool.
12
IRIS
The glass door to the balcony is closed.
I watch the handle. It’s a brushed steel lever. A vertical line in the darkness, waiting. On the other side of the glass, the balcony is empty.
The storm is thrashing against the railing, rain sweeping across the deck in violent sheets. Cassian is gone. The elevator numbers faded to B1 minutes ago.
I’m alone in the glass box.
Inside the room, the silence is physical. It presses against my eardrums, filling the space where violence exploded. My skin still burns from the impact against the wall. I touch my swollen lips. My wrist still pulses with the phantom pressure of his fingers, the iron grip that pinned me to the paneling.
You have a lot of fire for a pawn.
The adrenaline leaves a sickly, bruised feeling in its wake. This goes beyond fear. I know fear. I’ve lived with fear for three days. This is something else. This is shame.
