by Darcy Coates
“Do we have any kind of long-range weapon? Guns?” She squinted against the pain as he washed blood out of the cuts. “Or, uh, crossbows?”
He chuckled. “That would make for an exciting encounter. But I’m afraid not. My family did not approve of guns in the house. We have kitchen knives and bludgeoning weapons.”
“That’s not ideal.”
“No. But I don’t think we have a choice. Somehow, we must find a way to secure the house. Otherwise, we might be surviving, but we certainly won’t be living.”
She agreed. Winterbourne had been her home for only a few weeks, and she already felt the squeeze of being restricted to the bedroom. For Dorran, who had lived there his whole life, it had to feel like an invasion. This was his home. He might not have loved the building, but having his sanctuary infiltrated had to smart.
“We will wait until morning. Right now, these creatures are in their element in the dark. They will be easier to find—and fight—during bright daylight. I don’t think they enjoy noise either.”
Clare closed her eyes as Dorran finished washing the cuts and moved on to the antiseptic. “We can open the curtains to let extra light in as we go.”
“The house will need to be scouted systematically. Once we’ve searched a room and confirmed it is safe, we will lock its doors and find a way to ensure the seal stays untampered, perhaps with a thread tied to the handle so that it will snap if something opens it. If I start on the highest level and work down, the noise and disturbance might be enough to funnel them outside.”
“And once they’re out, we can lock them out.”
“Exactly.” He finished cleaning her wrist and unrolled the bandages. “This isn’t bad enough to require stitches, thankfully. But try not to strain it.”
“I can wrap a scarf around it or something for the fight tomorrow.”
“Hm…” He glanced at her. “No. I will search the house. You’ll stay here, where it is safe.”
“That’s not happening.” Just the thought was enough to turn Clare’s blood cold. “We had an agreement. We’re in this together, and no one is leaving anyone else alone.”
“But I also made a promise. To keep you safe.”
“Well, tough.” She tried to pull her hand out of his, but he tightened his grip on her, holding her still.
This time, when he looked at her, his expression was sharp and didn’t invite argument. “You are hurt. Tired. You have been under more stress in these last few days than any person should have to endure.”
“And you nearly froze in a lake. Besides, I can hold my own. I did in the forest.”
“You did.” He exhaled a shuddering breath. “But we were lucky as well. Clare, if I was not able to keep you safe… if you were hurt…”
He tied off the bandages as his voice failed, and Clare imagined what would happen if she lost to the creatures. She pictured the too-sharp nails and teeth digging into her, tearing through the skin and muscle in their desperation to sate their hunger. She shivered. “Well, we won’t let that happen. For either of us.”
There was something in his expression. She couldn’t read it. He’d always been a challenge to understand, but at that moment, it was harder than ever. His hand rested around hers, holding her lightly enough that she could easily pull away.
“I have never cared about anything as much as this,” Dorran finally whispered.
Clare frowned lightly. “What do you mean?” Survival? Defending the house? Is he talking about the garden or—
His eyes met hers for a brief second then glanced away again. “You.”
The world had grown muted. The wind, the house, even the fire faded into the distance until all she could feel was contained on that small fireside rug. Dorran. His halting, hoarse voice. The soft, barely there touch.
His head was down, his eyebrows low. He watched their hands, and she realised why he was holding her so lightly. He expected her to pull away. He was ready to let her go as soon as she showed reluctance. Clare thought she finally understood him.
He had always put her first—with their food, with their resources, and with his time. He’d thought she had destroyed their garden, but he’d followed her to apologise before he even knew she was blameless. He had done what he always did—he had tried to help her, selflessly, wholeheartedly, no matter the cost to him.
And he was kind, not in the way that expected anything in return and not that he was even trying to be kind. He just was. She hadn’t been able to see it at first. He had hidden it away behind formality and cool impassiveness, like a shield, guarding the parts of himself that could be hurt.
As they had spent time together, he’d begun to pull back his walls to let her see inside. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Those walls had been built over a lifetime, reinforced to protect him from a family that had given more cruelty than love. Lowering his defences made Dorran vulnerable, and he dreaded vulnerability more than anything else.
But at that moment, as he knelt beside her, he was completely open, completely exposed. His breathing was shallow, his head was low, and his eyes couldn’t meet hers even though he seemed to be trying. He was afraid, she realised. He’s learned that vulnerability leads to pain. It’s all he’s ever received. It’s the only outcome he thinks he can expect.
Yet in defiance of that, this man was offering himself to her, giving up his power to her. This beautiful, kind man.
She wanted to answer him, but she didn’t know the words. She wrapped both of her hands around his and lifted it. The skin was warm under her lips as she kissed the knuckles, one at a time. Dorran’s breath hitched. She pressed the back of his hand against her cheek, holding it there, hoping he would feel some of what she felt. The emotions were running through her in a flood, overwhelming her, almost painful in their intensity. They had to be spilling out, a tangible thing he could sense.
He breathed her name. The space between them was gone. His forehead touched hers. Clare sank into the sensations—the heat from his skin, the soft rush of his shallow breaths. He was so close. Long lashes framed his dark, intense eyes. His black hair mingled with hers. His lips were barely parted. She wanted to touch them, to know what he felt like.
He finally met her eyes. Another wall came down. She could read the emotions inside. Uncertainty. Shame and fear in equal measures. Hope—not much, but enough. And through that bewildering medley of emotions was adoration. It shone brightly, stronger than everything else.
It had always been there, she realised. It had been hidden carefully, disguised and smothered, but it had been growing with every day they spent together. He adored her.
Words were impossible. In their place, touch would do. She pressed into him, tilting up until her lips grazed his. A tremor ran through him like electricity. He moved to taste her again, cautiously, still expecting the sting of pain, but unwilling to withdraw. She held his hand to her face, and his fingers fanned out to touch her, to pull her into him. His lips were gentle and sincere, the taste exquisite. Everything about the kiss was so perfectly Dorran.
She was falling, losing herself in him, drowning but no longer afraid.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sleet assaulted the windows. Ice-fuelled gusts rattled loose tiles and stones. But it was warm in the bedroom with the fire’s heat spreading over them.
They sat on the rug, nestled close to each other. Dorran’s arm was around her back, and his other hand was holding hers, their fingers entwined. They fit together well. Clare’s chest was full of raw happiness, a strange, intense sensation. Dorran’s chin rested on top of her head. When he exhaled, it was contented. She closed her eyes and smiled as Dorran’s thumb traced over the back of her hand. Clare tilted her head back to kiss his throat. A happy murmur rose from him, and she felt him smiling against the top of her head.
“So beautiful,” Dorran murmured. His guards were down. The normal hesitation had vanished as he opened himself to her. “You are so, so beautiful.”
She chuckled, plea
sed heat spreading over her face. “I’m nothing special. You should see my sister—” Her voice broke. She couldn’t believe she had let it fall from her mind. Marnie, Beth, and everyone she had ever known and cared for were lost out in the stillness. The radio waited beside the fireplace. Its static was barely audible. Beth’s frequency remained unused.
Dorran’s hand rose to touch her face. His dark eyes were filled with sadness as he watched her. “Clare—”
“I’m okay.” She tried to smile. The muscles ached. “It’s… it’s okay.”
“My dearest Clare.” He said it hesitantly as though he weren’t sure he was allowed to. It helped, though. The bittersweet sensation was back, a sad kind of joy mixed in with pain. Dorran lightly pulled her back against himself, and his lips brushed her forehead in a tender kiss.
“Thank you,” Clare whispered.
His reply was equally soft. “I am sorry I cannot do more.”
She looked towards the window. It was still dark, but each passing moment brought them closer to dawn. And dawn meant the horrors of the house would have to be faced. She licked her lips. “I want to go with you tomorrow.”
“Ah.” He exhaled then dipped down to kiss her cheek. The expression was gentle and almost painfully sweet, and Clare’s heart ached as he moved away again. “I know how much this worries you, but you must trust me. Stay here, where it is safe. I will return as quickly as I can.”
She swallowed. Her throat ached. “I’ll be useful. I can watch your back.”
“I am sure you would. I have no doubt that you would make a strong partner. But still, I am unrelenting.” He kissed her neck.
Clare leaned into his touch, relishing him, but her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. The mansion was so large. It had so many rooms, so many places to become trapped, so many places to be ambushed. And Dorran had been worn down over the last week. She’d nearly lost him to the lake. He would fight hard, but there was too much for one man to do.
“I can’t—” She took a gulping breath as she tried to put her feelings into words. “You’re all I have left right now. And… and I need you. I can’t do this without you.”
He looked at the door. She could feel the conflict running through him as he grazed his thumb over the back of her hand. At last, he said, “We can compromise. Perhaps there is a way for us to venture out together—not deep into the house, but somewhere nearby to assess the situation.”
“Okay.”
“But let us leave the details to negotiate until tomorrow. It must be near midnight, and we are both tired. We will benefit from some rest.”
That was the truth. Clare reluctantly nodded.
“Forgive me.” Dorran pulled back. “I forgot you haven’t eaten yet. Sit a moment while I reheat your soup.”
She tangled her fingers in his shirt. Even letting him move away to reach the bowl felt like too far. She was afraid if she tried to say anything, she would start crying again.
Dorran’s expression fell. He brushed his fingertips over her face, running them over her cheek and her lips. When he spoke, his voice was tight. “We will be all right, my darling. We can make this work.”
Clare nodded and let Dorran slip away. He reheated her soup then nestled her at his side while she ate it. She stared at the crackling flames, but her mind was on her other senses—the steady heartbeat and even breaths that moved under her ear, the distracting and entrancing feeling of his fingertips tracing over her arm, and the feel of his shirt under her cheek.
I can’t let anything happen to him. He needs to be safe.
She’d had those exact thoughts days before. Back then, though, it had been over something very different: the family that refused to let Dorran go.
A wash of cold moved through Clare despite the warm soup. She’d been so caught up in grief over her family that she hadn’t thought about Dorran’s. He was dealing with his own loss. His entire family, the staff he’d become friends with, his dog—every person he had ever been close to—were gone. She clasped her hand around his and held it tightly. “Your family—”
“Are most likely dead, yes.” He nudged her hand back to the bowl. “It is all right. Eat, my dear.”
“Are you… okay? I mean, I know your mother was horrible, but…”
Emotion flitted across his face, but he hid it quickly. When he spoke, the words were measured. “I regret losing many of them. The staff were not all bad. My nieces and nephews especially did not deserve it. And yet, for the first time in my life, I am free. I do not quite know how to feel about it. It is… a lot.”
“If you need to talk…”
He smiled. “Thank you. For now, I am looking forward, to our immediate priorities. Securing the house. Making sure you eat enough.” He pressed her hand towards the spoon again. “Once we are safe, there will be time for everything else.”
As Clare chewed another mouthful of dinner, she thought Dorran’s perspective might be the sanest they could adopt. Grief and guilt couldn’t protect them. They needed to stay alive, stay together. And that meant staying focussed.
They fell asleep like they had previous nights: together on the rug, huddled close for warmth, with Dorran’s arm thrown over Clare. She was tired enough to sleep for a full day, but her subconscious kept her dreams light and never let her stray far from wakefulness. She snapped to awareness when Dorran moved to add more wood to the fire. He lay back down, and she let sleep reclaim her again.
The second time Dorran stirred to keep their fire alive, Clare lay still and kept her eyes closed. She thought the sun was starting to rise. Even through her eyelids, the darkness felt less oppressive. Dorran’s movements were slow and near silent as he added new logs to the grate. Then, moving cautiously, he draped a spare blanket over Clare.
A featherlight kiss grazed her cheek. She felt his presence move away and heard the muffled scrape of the chair being pulled back from the door. A moment later, distant hinges ground against each other, then the latch clicked as the door was shut again.
He actually did it.
Clare rolled over and sat up. The room felt painfully lonely with just her in it. The bed had clean sheets but hadn’t been slept in for days. The wallpaper, which had seemed maddening when she’d first seen it, now felt familiar. Like she’d thought, the sun was just starting to rise. It was too early for it to breach the tips of the forest’s trees, but the deep black of night had faded.
She shivered as she stood and folded her arms around herself. The fire’s heat couldn’t keep her warm as she crossed to the door. She knew Dorran would have locked it, but she still had to try. The handle was unyielding, as expected.
Clare had guessed Dorran’s plan when he’d suggested they postpone making any decisions until the morning. He’d sensed that she wasn’t going to give ground, and he had let her fall asleep and tried to leave before she woke so that she couldn’t stop him. He probably hoped she would still be asleep when he returned from searching the house. The door was locked, sealing her in the room, just in case.
And Clare had let him go. She didn’t want to argue with him again. It would be easier to ask forgiveness later. She pressed her lips together as she crossed to her dressing gown draped over the wingback chair. It was a good try, Dorran. But you forgot something.
Inside the gown’s pocket were the housekeeper’s keys Dorran had given her for safekeeping the previous day. The heavy metal ring was slightly rusted and held at least forty keys—some large and ornate, others tiny.
Clare sorted through the tangle of keys as she returned to the door, looking for one that would match the bronze handle. The fourth key she tried slid neatly into the slot, and a quiet clicking noise told her it had worked. She opened the door a fraction and peered into the hallway.
Dorran had already removed the curtain at the end of the hall, and stark white light flooded the space. As far as Clare could tell, the halls were empty. She slipped back into the room and changed hurriedly, rushing to put on clothes that would keep her warm in th
e freezing building and protect her at least somewhat from bites and scratching claws. Winterbourne’s clothing options for her size were limited to dresses, but she wore sturdy boots under the skirt and pulled on a heavy jacket with thick sleeves and a set of leather gloves. A knit scarf would protect her throat. Then she knelt by the crate. Dorran had already taken weapons from it, but he’d left a paring knife, which she tucked into her pocket. Then she picked up the fire poker and gave it an experimental swing. It was hefty and solid. Though not sharp enough to work as a sword, it would still do some damage in a pinch.
She returned to the door and hesitated at the opening as she listened for signs that she might not be alone. Everything was quiet. Clare took a moment to focus, sucking in a deep breath, and stepped through.
Dorran had said he would start on the highest levels and see if he could push the creatures downstairs. Clare didn’t know the house’s layout well, but Dorran had planned to funnel the creatures down and outside, so she guessed he would have started in the rooms farthest from the stairs. She followed the hallway, treading lightly, her senses on high alert.
The intersection split her path into three options. Clare stopped and turned in a slow circle. Everywhere she looked was a confusing mesh of high walls, dark wallpaper, and clusters of expensive furniture. The left passageway was still shrouded in shadows. Sunlight spilled through the window straight ahead, but none of that passageway’s doors were open. Clare didn’t think Dorran would lock himself in a room he was searching so she looked to the right. The tall hollow one had broken the hall’s lightbulbs the night before. Shards of glass were scattered over the carpet, glittering like diamonds. And at the end of the hallway was an elongated, dark shape.
Clare took half a step back. Her heart missed a beat then thudded too hard, making her shudder. She wasn’t looking at the stretched woman. She was looking at a ladder.
The house has an attic.
She flexed sweaty fingers over the poker and marched down the hallway. Glass shards crackled under her boots as she stepped over them. The light coming through the window at the end of the hall wrapped around the stairs and slipped through the slats, making Clare squint. She tried to listen for noises above her, but the wind was sharp that day, and if any subtle sounds permeated the air, she couldn’t hear them.
