Fifteen minutes.
I look down at my blood-stained dress. I can't leave here looking like this. Can't let anyone see me covered in my father's blood like some kind of victim.
The bathroom is through a door on the right. I peel off the dress, let it fall to the tile floor in a stiff heap. The blood has dried into the fabric, turning it from navy to something darker. Ruined.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray before the water's even warm.
The blood runs off in rusty streams. Down my arms. Off my hands. Circling the drain like evidence being washed away.
I scrub until my skin is raw. Until there's no more brown water. Until I'm clean.
The towel is soft. I wrap it around myself, securing it above my breasts.
Reilan said fifteen minutes. He should be here soon with clothes.
But I can't stand here dripping in the bathroom until he arrives. I need a robe. Something to cover myself until my brother gets here.
I push open the bathroom door and step back into the bedroom, scanning for a closet, a wardrobe, anything...
William Murphy stands by the window.
We both freeze.
His eyes track down my body: the towel barely covering me, water dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, beading on my bare legs; then snap back up to my face. But not before I see something flicker in his gaze. Something dark and hungry and immediately shuttered.
"What are you doing in here?" I pull the towel tighter, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicks up. Trying to ignore the way he's looking at me. Like he can't decide if he wants to leave or cross the room and...
No. Not going there.
"This is my house." His voice is rough. He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier, still looks wrecked, but there's something different in his eyes now. Sharper. More focused. "I can go wherever I want."
"Common courtesy would suggest knocking."
"Common courtesy would suggest not standing in my guest room wearing nothing but a towel." His jaw tightens. "Where are your clothes?"
"My brother's bringing them." I lift my chin, refusing to feel embarrassed. Refusing to show weakness. "He'll be here soon."
"Will he." It's not a question. William doesn't move from the window.
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
"What do you want?" I ask finally.
"You should be resting." His voice is rough. "Not wandering around half-naked."
"I needed to shower." I force my voice to stay steady. "To wash off my father's blood."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens, maybe. Or hardens differently.
He moves closer. Not threatening, exactly. But deliberate. Each step measured. His hands are clenched at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from...what?
I can't tell, and that's both terrifying and something else I refuse to name.
He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to hold his gaze.
"My brother said my father is stable," I say, needing to break the tension. Needing him to stop looking at me like that.
"For now." His eyes drop to my collarbone, where water still beads, then jerk back up. "The Russians aren't done."
