Behind the door

The breaking silence

Chapter 13 – The Breaking Silence



Adrian was already moving before the echo of the crash faded. His body was all sharp lines and controlled urgency, like a man who had been expecting this moment far too long.



Elena clutched the book to her chest, torn between obedience and defiance. But one look at his face stopped her from following. His expression was no longer merely serious—it was lethal.



“Stay here,” he repeated, voice low, each word a command wrapped in desperation.



Then he was gone, ascending the stairs two at a time. The old house groaned under his weight, the shadows swallowing him whole.



Elena crept to the bottom of the staircase, straining to hear.



The silence stretched, taut as a string. Then—voices. Not quite voices, but something that mimicked them. Whispers, layered over each other, seeping through the walls like smoke.



Her skin prickled. She clutched the banister, listening.



“Leave…” one voice hissed.

“…bound…forever…” another sighed.

“…Adrian…” a third breathed, almost lovingly, almost accusingly.



She shuddered. They knew him.



Above, a door slammed open. Adrian’s voice roared through the hall, raw and commanding, stripped of all its usual restraint. “Enough!”



The house trembled. The whispers fell silent, smothered by the force of his fury.



Elena’s heart hammered. She had never heard him sound like that—powerful, dangerous, other.



Moments later, he descended the stairs. His gray eyes were storm-dark, his face pale, his breath uneven as though he’d wrestled with something unseen. A jagged cut traced his forearm, though no object in sight could have made it.



Elena’s breath caught. “Adrian—what happened up there?”



He didn’t answer at first. He brushed past her, running a trembling hand through his hair, pacing the study like a caged animal.



Finally, he stopped, his gaze pinning hers with unbearable intensity.



“You’re not safe here,” he said, his voice rough, almost broken. “Not in this house. Not with me. Especially not with me.”



Elena stepped closer, her fear warring with something stronger, something that made her chest ache. “Then tell me why. Tell me what you are.”



Adrian’s jaw tightened. His eyes glistened with the kind of torment only a man bound by chains could carry. He lifted his hand as if to touch her, then stopped, fingers curling into a fist.



“If I told you,” he whispered, “you’d never look at me the same again.”



The pull between them throbbed, stronger than ever, but so did the dread. The cut on his arm gleamed darkly in the firelight, proof of a battle she hadn’t seen but could feel in every trembling bone of the house.



And Elena knew with terrible certainty: Adrian wasn’t fighting for her. He was fighting against himself.





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