Page 99 of These Tears

I find myself staring at the book.

On the bed.

One bed.

Despite the curveballs Elias had thrown my way today, I am not tired. Not even after the drugged unconsciousness that stole the better part of the day.

But sleep is not what keeps me on edge.

It’s the dreaded night.

The looming bed.

The latch clicks beside me. My shoulders tense before the door even starts to move. Elias walks in without knocking, without asking, without so much as acknowledging that I’d closed it for a reason.

‘The fire will go on for a while,’ he says as though the previous topic isn’t still burning in the air. ‘But it will eventually go out, and it will get colder by morning.’

That low, practical warmth in his tone slips under my skin. I can’t tell which is the real one – this one, which makes me want to curl into him as if he were a cosy blanket stitched together just for me, or the one he used when he opened the door and almost let the blizzard take me.

He strolls across the bedroom with relaxed shoulders, as if this were any ordinary evening, and slides the book onto the shelf. ‘You can have the shower first.’

My brain static-hums.

My eyes snap to him.

What’s his angle?

I don’t even dare to follow that thought to its end. Stepping aside when he reaches the bed, I see him yanking the thick duvet halfway off. It billows tauntingly, then settles like a threat: come closer. See what horrors these cold Norwegian nights hold when you’re lying next to a psychopath.

‘Pull the bookcase,’ he says, like a perfectly reasonable request.

Perplexed, I glance at the offending furniture next to the headboard.

When I make no hint that I’ll obey, he stops with the fluffing.

Without a look in my direction, he extends one long arm, hooks his fingers over the edge of the shelf, and with one sharp pull, the whole thing groans open.

It’s not just a shelf – it’s a door.

I gape. So that’s why the books looked as if they’d been stacked by a drunk librarian. Every time the door swings, it rattles the spines, toppling them over.

The opening beyond it registers, and whatever curiosity I had shrivels beneath a fresh prickle of unease. A shower room.

Another hidden space. Another thing about this house that I didn’t want to know.

I turn on my heel and retreat to the bags in search of clean pyjamas, underwear and a camisole – armour assembled in cotton and silk as I keep my awareness on the space between us.

When I gather what I need, my feet swallow the distance to the bookcase.

Beyond it, river stones are set beneath my feet and dip almost imperceptibly towards a narrow drain. Against the back wall, there’s a low wooden bench, wide enough for two, with a basket of dark stones beside it and what appears to be a poker.

No curtains. No frosted glass. Nowhere to turn your body for some privacy.

The top of Elias’ head nearly grazes the low ceiling as he steps in, banishing whatever is left of the resin-scented air.

I back away as far as I can – though it’s not much.

‘It’s the warmest room. It sits within the core of the house. No external walls.’ He knocks on one.