Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Beneath the Surface

Anya pushed herself up from her knees, stretching her arms to work out the stiffness from crouching for so long. Across from her, Anthony slipped the small leather-bound diary into his satchel as if it were made of crystal — not a sound, not a wasted movement.

For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the faint thrill of their little escapade. The silent breaking in, the delicate rifling through drawers, the careful steps on old floorboards — she'd been far too sheltered for far too long, and this kind of risk did strange things to her pulse. But then her eyes drifted to the bed.
The bed she could have been forced to share.

A cold shiver clawed up her spine.

Her throat tightened sharply, and her heartbeat picked up, thrumming through her ribs like a drum played out of rhythm. She forced a deep breath — and regretted it almost instantly. The thick, metallic tang of stale blood curdled in her nostrils, sliding unwanted down her throat until it coated her tongue.

Her face twisted in discomfort. Anthony was suddenly beside her, his palm moving slow circles over her back, waiting without a word for her to steady herself. But the nausea swelled, the taste of iron refusing to fade. She gently pushed him aside and took two steps away from the bed as if distance could dilute the stench.

Anthony moved up alongside her again, lowering his voice. "Let's get you out of here." His fingers wrapped firmly yet carefully around her wrist, pulling her behind him as he edged toward the door.

She listened hard, matching her breathing to his pace, straining for any hint of trouble—then felt his grip tighten.

That was when she heard it too. Voices in the hallway — male, low, urgent — growing louder with every passing second.

Anthony's reaction was swift, deliberate. He crossed the room in long strides, yanked the bedcovers back with one practiced sweep and scanned the floor. Without so much as a glance at her for permission, he pulled her down with him, guiding her beneath the heavy wooden frame just as the doorknob turned.

The gap beneath the bed was narrow, forcing them close together. Her shoulder knocked against his chest as she tried to squeeze in behind him. Two pairs of boots entered the room — dark leather, dust scuffed at the toes.

From under the bed, the smell of blood bloomed even thicker, warm and oppressive, pressing against her ribs until she bit back a gag. Panic prickled at the back of her throat. She yanked the lapel of her coat over her face, trying to replace the metallic tang with the scent of old fabric and powder.

When she glanced sideways, Anthony's face was carved in stone — utterly impassive. The stench didn't seem to touch him. Then his green eyes found hers. She froze, her breath snared somewhere between fear and relief at seeing that look of calm give her even a thread of stability.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached out, his hand firm on her hip, and drew her closer so no part of her body rested in view of the men above. Even in the gloom beneath the bed, she could see the flicker of something more in his gaze — not just caution, but closeness.

Above them, drawers opened and slammed shut. The men cursed under their breath, muttering about wasted time, shuffling papers and tossing items to the floor in clear frustration.

The noise should have been enough to hold her focus. But every inhale seemed heavier, thicker, the stench forcing its way back in despite her improvised shield. She closed her eyes tight, dragging her thoughts toward anything else — flowers, fresh linens, orange zest, honeycake — anything with sweetness.

She didn't notice Anthony's hand move until the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. Her eyes flew open to find his gaze locked on hers, an intensity there that quickened her pulse for reasons having nothing to do with fear. She saw his glance shift to her mouth — slow, deliberate — and, before her mind could process the moment, his lips were on hers.