Page 119
Holding my breath, I listen to the silence pressing against the chamber walls, wondering if the masked man is still out there, waiting by the staircase for me to show myself again.
The thought makes my stomach coil with unease. The darkness presses in around me as panic crawls up my throat.
He spoke to me as if he’d been watching me for years.
The door upstairs creaks open.
Every muscle in my body locks as light spills across the staircase, panic hitting hard enough that I nearly drop the slate.
I drag myself backward toward the shadows beside the wall, ignoring the sharp burst of pain shooting through my shoulder, as my pulse spirals even harder out of control.
Footsteps echo down the staircase, each step measured and deliberate. Then a familiar voice drifts through the darkness. “Rowan? There you are.”
Relief crashes through me so hard it almost pisses me off.
“If you were looking for my bedroom, you seriously took a wrong turn somewhere.”
Of course it’s him.
Ciaran steps into view a second later, still wearing those black leather pants stretched tight across his thighs and a dark shirt with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, his helmet tucked beneath one arm while rainwater glitters along the sharp line of his jaw.
Somehow, my first coherent thought is that he’s unfairly attractive.
A weak groan escapes me as I drag a hand through my hair.
His gaze lands on me instantly and the amusement vanishes from his face. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
Ciaran glances at the blood smeared across my palm. “Right. You clearly look fine.”
“I fell.” The laugh comes out weak.
“No shit. Then you tried crawling away from me afterward, which is admittedly a little kinky, but probably less sexy in a dusty underground chamber.”
My face heats. “You don’t have to sound so descriptive about it.”
“Rowan.” His voice roughens, sounding far less playful than before. “You ignored my messages. What the fuck were you even doing down here anyway?”
“What do you care?” I mutter.
Ciaran kneels in front of me and catches my chin between his fingers, tilting my face up toward his. “I told you already,” he murmurs, his mouth suddenly close enough that my pulse stumbles again. “You sleep in my bed now. That makes you my problem.”
He’s kidding. He’s got to be.
But my lips part before I can stop them, and when my gaze drops helplessly toward his mouth, I know I’m the one fooling myself. “I’m no one’s problem.”
“No?” He cocks his head. “Then what are you doing lying here in a dark chamber, legs in a heap and head badly hurt? You want me to go instead and let you figure it out yourself?”
“I—” No. The thought of him leaving me here alone is as terrifying as letting him help me.
“That’s what I thought. You’re very bad at asking for help, little mouse.”
Oh.
In his own twisted way, he really did come down here because he was worried. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that.
Maybe panic turned some of the shadows into threats, but the man at the concert was real. So was the black mask. The baton.
