(1)ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴍʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ──── ROADTRIPTV √

𝔈𝔭𝔦𝔰𝔬𝔡𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫 ✔️

Andy had gone into the bathroom dazed and numb with gratitude. He came out in a huff. 

He wasn't quite sure how the transformation had come about. But at some point, while washing the scratches on his face and arms, annoyed at the lack of a mirror and at the fact that he had left his handbag in Emilio's convertible, he began to feel again. And what he felt was anger. 

Damn Rye Beaumont. So cold and controlling, even when he saved him life. Damn him for his politeness and for his gallantry and for the walls around him that seemed thicker and higher than ever. 

He then quickly ran an engraved bone comb he had found at the sink through his loosened hair. He came out of the bathroom with his chin up and his eyes narrowed. 

He had not put his coat back on. He stood by the window in his white jumper with his head down, tense, waiting. Without lifting his head, he gestured to a piece of dark velvet draped over the back of a chair. 

"You might want to put that on over your suit." 

It was a floor-length coat, very rich and soft, with a hood. Andy pulled the heavy fabric around his shoulders. But the gift didn't soothe him, he noticed that Rye hadn't stepped closer to him or even looked at him as he spoke. 

He deliberately invaded his territory, pulling the cloak tighter around him and feeling, even in that moment, a sensual appreciation of the way the folds fell around him and dragged on the floor behind him. 

He walked towards it and examined the heavy mahogany dresser by the window. 

On it lay a wicked-looking dagger with an ivory handle and a beautiful agate cup set in silver. There was also a gold ball with some kind of dial in it and several loose gold coins. 

He picked up one of the coins, partly because it was interesting and partly because he knew it would upset him if she handled his things. "What's this?" 

It took him a moment to answer. Then he said:

"A gold florin. A Florentine coin." 

"And what is that?" 

"A German pendulum clock. Late fifteenth century," he said distractedly. He added, "Andy-" 

He reached for a small iron box with a hinged lid. "What about this? Does it open?" 

" No." He had the reflexes of a cat; his hand flicked over the box and held down the lid. "It's private," he said, the tension clear in his voice. 

He noticed that his hand was only touching the curved iron lid, not his flesh. He lifted his fingers and he withdrew immediately. 

Suddenly, his anger was too great to hold back any longer. "Careful," he said savagely. "Don't touch me or you'll get a disease." 

He turned away towards the window. 

And yet, even as he moved away and back into the centre of the room, he could feel him watching his reflection. And he suddenly knew what he must look like to him, pale hair spilling over the blackness of her cloak, a white hand holding the velvet closed at his throat. A ravaged princess, pacing up and down her tower. He tilted his head far back to look at the trapdoor in the ceiling and heard a soft, distinct intake of breath. When he turned, his gaze was fixed on his exposed throat; the expression in his eyes puzzled him.

But the next moment his face hardened and shut him out. 

"I think," he said, "that I had better take you home." 

He wanted to hurt him in that moment, to make him feel as bad as he had made him feel. But He also wanted the truth. He was tired of this game, tired of scheming and plotting and trying to read Rye's mind. He was terrified and yet a wonderful relief to hear his own voice say the words he had been thinking for so long.