There was no point trying to force it.
I eased the bedroom door open and slipped across the dark hallway to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked like a stranger’s—pale, eyes hollowed out by exhaustion. Dried blood matted my hairline, a stark, rusty reminder of where my head had slammed against the lift cage.
I wet a cloth and scrubbed at it. The water ran pink in the basin. Beneath the gore, it was just a cut—shallow, already clotting. It throbbed, a dull counterpart to the ache in my shoulder, but it wasn’t deep. It would hold. Nothing compared to the hole in Riven’s side.
Cleaned up but still restless, I wandered further down the upstairs hallway. The air was cool, carrying that faint scent of damp stone you can’t fake—the kind that seeps into old buildings and refuses to leave.
The first door I tried opened into a spare room. It was dark and empty, the furniture draped in white sheets like ghosts waiting for permission to rise. Dust motes drifted through a thin sliver ofmoonlight. There was a strange sadness to it. The room remembered people the house no longer held.
I stepped back and tried the next door.
A study.
It was warmer here. The smell of old paper and leather hit me instantly. I flicked on a small desk lamp, and amber light spilled across shelves packed tight with books—tall spines, cracked leather, worn edges. These weren’t decorative. They had been read hundreds of times. Some were ancient, handwritten journals; others were in languages I didn’t recognise.
I touched one spine gently. It felt… familiar, somehow. Like something from my dad’s attic, recalling memories I’d never actually lived.
I dragged my fingers along the shelves and drew a deep breath, letting the room’s stillness settle my nerves. He lived here alone, surrounded by the past. It made the consultant mask feel even thinner.
Eventually, I made my way downstairs. Duskfall Manor felt suspended in time—no humming appliances, no street noise, just the faint, distant rumble of waves hitting the rocks far below.
I found the kitchen and put the kettle on. The tiles were icy under my feet, the light dim and golden. When the water boiled, I poured myself a mug of tea and wrapped both hands around it until the warmth sank into my fingers.
Back upstairs, I slipped into Riven’s room again. He was still asleep—hair a dark spill on the pillow, arm slung over his torso, chest rising evenly now. The grey pallor had faded, leaving just the shadow of exhaustion.
I sank back into the armchair, pulled the blanket from its back, and wrapped myself up. The tea helped. The quiet helped more.
At some point, the adrenaline finally bled out, and I fellasleep.
The soft chimeof a grandfather clock woke me. I blinked blearily towards the doorway, the morning light grey and soft.
Eight o’clock. Monday.
I sat up, a jolt of professional panic hitting me before the stiffness in my neck caught up. I should be at my desk. I dug my phone out of my pocket. Two missed calls from the desk sergeant.
I ignored them and typed a quick, standard message to Marcus Hale:Following active leads regarding the cargo theft in Sector 4. Field inquiry today. Will update.
It was thin, but it bought us twenty-four hours. I hit send, silenced the device so Hale couldn’t ring back to shout at me, and dropped it onto the carpet.
Riven hadn’t moved. He was on his back, breathing slow and steady, one hand resting near the bandaged side. The wound was closed—thanks to me—but the blood remained, dried in dark, rusty streaks across his pale skin.
I winced at the sight. I should have cleaned it last night, but we had both been running on fumes.
I stood, stretching the stiffness from my spine, and quietly slipped into the bathroom. I dampened a towel with warm water, wringing it out until it was soft and steaming.
Back in his room, I hesitated, then settled on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under my weight.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Carefully, I began to wash away the dried blood. His skin warmed under the cloth, the heat of him radiating upward. He didn’t stir, except for a faint, reflex twitch in his fingers as the towel grazed the lean muscle of his ribs.
My gaze drifted upward.
The tattoo across his chest and shoulder was stunning. Dark swirls and lines wound around his ribs, curling across his collarbone, sweeping down his left arm almost to his wrist. It was intricate and fierce and utterly him—controlled chaos inked into skin.
Beautiful.
My fingers hovered near the edge of the design without touching. But something drew me lower. Just over his heart, partially obscured by the ink, was a mark that didn’t belong to a needle.
