Page 37 of Blood Debt
She gasps, stumbling.
One foot drags back. Her shoulder stiffens beneath mine. Her hands find my side. She steadies me.
I smell lavender soap on her skin.
Matteo steps forward. “Let me take him.”
“No,” I mumble, pushing him away clumsily with one hand. “No. I said she will.”
Matteo’s mouth pulls tight.
She speaks, soft but even. “It’s fine, sir. I’ll take him.”
I laugh again. “Such a good maid.”
She shifts under me, sliding my arm more tightly over her shoulder, adjusting the pressure at my back. She’s stronger than she looks, but I can feel the strain in her every step.
“Which way?” she asks gently.
I wave vaguely. “Upstairs. East wing. End of the hall. Big doors. Can’t miss it.”
The hallway is too long.
The lights buzz overhead. Each one seems to blink just as we pass.
My feet drag. I lean into her.
She staggers once but catches us both. Her breath brushes my cheek. Her hair is pinned tight, but a few strands fall against her temple.
The staircase is a nightmare. She braces herself against the railing, guiding me with slow, determined strength.
Halfway up, I glance at her face. Still pretending she doesn’t know me.
But I know her.
God, I know her.
At the top of the stairs, she pauses to catch her breath. Her brow is damp. Her jaw is tight. But her eyes are down, like always.
We turn down the hall. Everything is echoing.
She stops in front of the double doors and shifts my weight carefully.
“Here?” she whispers.
I nod.
She pushes one of the doors open with her foot.
The room swallows us whole.
It’s large. Vaulted ceiling. Heavy beams overhead like ribs in an ancient chest. The lights are low, dimmed to a soft amber. Heavy curtains hang drawn over the windows. The fireplace is out, but the scent of old smoke lingers. The carpet underfoot mutes our steps.
She leads me in.
Each breath she takes is shallow, like she’s afraid to make noise.
My bed waits at the center of the room, dressed in charcoal linen and a fur throw folded across the foot. She steers me to the edge.
