NOCTURNE

The storm had followed me from the harbor. Waves had nearly swallowed the ferry, and by the time I reached the island road, my body was shaking with cold and nerves. Rain hammered against the windshield, the wipers barely keeping pace, until finally the car stuttered, coughed, and died at the edge of the cliffs. I sat there in the dark, the sea roaring below, the lighthouse cutting through the storm like a single, patient eye. For a long moment, I thought this was how I would end—alone, soaked, anonymous. Then the headlights appeared in the mirror. A black SUV stopped behind me, steady even on the slick stones. The door opened, and a tall figure stepped out, his coat whipping in the wind. “Your car won’t last the night,” he called over the rain. His voice was deep, controlled. “Come with me.” I hesitated, hand gripping the steering wheel. The man moved closer, his face lit briefly by the lightning: angular jaw, piercing dark eyes, lips pressed into a line of certainty. “My name is Adrian,” he said. “And unless you want to freeze or drown out here, you’ll follow me.” Against all better judgment, I opened the door. The wind nearly tore it from my grip, but Adrian steadied it with one hand, the strength in his arm undeniable. His other hand touched my elbow—firm, guiding, not asking. Inside his SUV, warmth hit me like a drug. My breath clouded the windows, and I pressed trembling fingers to my knees. He drove in silence, his profile illuminated now and then by the sweep of headlights. The road climbed higher, away from the sea, until the mansion appeared: a fortress of stone clinging to the cliffs, windows glowing dimly against the storm. When we stopped before its gates, I turned to him. “Why are you helping me?” His eyes flicked at me, unreadable. "Because I don’t leave people to die in storms. Even if I should." Before I could ask what he meant, the gates opened with a groan. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and smoke. The hall was cavernous, lit by oil lamps that cast long shadows across old maps and dark paintings. I pulled the borrowed cardigan tighter around me, though the heat from the fire had already begun to thaw my bones. Adrian shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto a chair. He was broader than I had realized in the car, his movements deliberate, precise. He poured two glasses of something amber and handed one to me. “Drink. It will steady you.” I obeyed. The burn of the liquor slid down my throat, leaving warmth behind. My eyes followed him as he leaned against the mantelpiece, the fire painting him in shades of gold and shadow. “You live here alone?” I asked, just to break the silence. “Yes.” “Isn’t it… lonely?” His lips curved—not into a smile, but something darker. “Loneliness is preferable to company I don’t trust.” The words settled heavily between us. I couldn’t tell if it was a warning or an invitation. Later, he showed me the guest room, its window rattling against the storm. He stood in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, watching me set the glass on the nightstand. “If you need anything, call me,” he said. Then, after a pause, “But I don’t think you will.” I looked up at him. His gaze lingered too long—on my face, my damp hair, the curve of my throat. Heat prickled in my skin, though the room was cool. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Adrian’s eyes flicked to the bed, then back to me. Something unspoken tightened in the air. Finally, he stepped back into the hall. “Sleep,” he ordered softly. “The storm won’t last forever.” The door closed. But his presence clung to the room like smoke, and I lay awake for hours, my body humming with a tension I didn’t dare name.