The room was colder than the rest of the house, grey light filtering through rain-streaked glass that hadn't been cleaned in seasons. Wind pushed under the doorframe, making the carpet damp near his boots. A desk sat against the far wall, clean of paper, as if no one had ever actually worked here.
Claire stood in the center, arms wrapped around herself, her pinned hair starting to loosen at the nape. She wasn't looking at him—she was looking at the walls, the cold fireplace, the empty space where someone else might have stood.
"Victor brings women here," she said, and her voice was flat in a way that felt practiced, like she'd rehearsed this warning in her head for years. "When he wants to break them. He brings them here first."
Ethan's hand stopped mid-measurement. The pencil—the one she'd sharpened—was still in his grip. He set it down on the desk's edge. The click of wood against wood was too loud in the silence.
He crossed the room without deciding to. His boots made no sound on the damp carpet. She didn't turn, but he saw her shoulders lock.
His hand found her arm. She flinched—a small, sharp pull away from him, her body bracing for a grip that would hold her in place. The reaction was older than him, older than this room, trained into her bones.
Ethan's fingers slid down to her wrist instead. He didn't tighten his grip. He just held, his thumb resting on the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat fast and uneven.
A sound escaped her. Not a sob, not a word—something caught between them. She turned into him, her forehead pressing against his chest, her hands fisting in his flannel where it hung open. Her breath came in ragged starts.
He wrapped his arms around her, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn't. He could feel the anger and the wanting tangled up in the way she held on. His sawdust-stained hand cupped the back of her head.
Above them, a floorboard creaked. Victor's weight, shifting.
Ethan's arms loosened slowly, his callused hands sliding from her back to her shoulders, then falling away entirely. The cold air rushed into the space where his body had been, and Claire's arms closed around herself again, hugging tight. She didn't look up at him.
He took one step back. Then another. His boots made a soft sound on the damp carpet. The floor above had gone silent—no more creaking, no shift of weight. Just the rain against the glass and the wind pushing under the door.
Ethan turned toward the door. It was closed—he didn't remember closing it. The wood was old, painted a grey that matched the light outside. His hand reached for the handle, fingers brushing the cool brass.
He pulled it open an inch. The hallway beyond was empty, dim, the rain casting shadows through the window at the far end. No footsteps. No voice. Just the house breathing around them, old and patient.
He held the door there, listening. The silence from above felt deliberate, like a held breath. Victor knew they were in here. He had to know. The floor had creaked exactly once, then nothing—like he'd stopped walking to wait.
Ethan let the door fall closed again. The click of the latch was too loud in the quiet. Behind him, Claire hadn't moved. He could feel her watching him now, her grey eyes tracking his back like she was trying to read what he'd heard.
"He knows," she said, and her voice was flat again, the vulnerability from moments ago buried under something harder. "He always knows."
Ethan turned. She was still standing in the center of the room, her arms wrapped tight, her pinned hair looser now, a strand falling across her cheek. She looked smaller than she had when they'd walked in.
"Then let him know," Ethan said, and the words came out rougher than he'd meant. He didn't step toward her. He stayed by the door, his hand still on the handle, feeling the cold brass against his palm.
Her breath caught. Just once. A small, sharp sound that she tried to swallow. She didn't look away from him, and in the grey light of the office, her eyes were the only warm thing in the room.