Chapter 12
TWELVE
Daniel
The wall was cool against my back, a solid reality in a house made mostly of glass and shadows. I sat on the hardwood floor of the hallway, my legs stretched out in front of me as much as I was able, staring at the empty space where a painting should have been.
One hour.
It had been one hour since the heavy brass deadbolt had slid home, sealing Tessa Kane inside her fortress and leaving us outside in the ruins of our own guilt.
Down the hall, the living room was quiet.
Anders was pacing, I didn't need to see him to know it.
I could hear the rhythmic click-clack of his shoes turning at the end of every lap, a pendulum measuring anxiety in Italian leather.
Simon was silent, likely curled up on the couch staring at the rain, or scrubbing his hands for the twentieth time.
But I stayed here.
I was the guard dog. I was the heavy furniture guarding the door to keep the world out.
Inside the bedroom, there was a sound.
It started low, a rustle of linens, followed by a sharp, wet intake of breath. Then came the groan, a jagged, friction-heavy sound that vibrated through the wood and straight into my spine.
It felt like someone had hooked a fishing line into my chest and yanked.
"Ah... nnngh."
The sound of pain. Not the terrified screaming of the crisis, but the deep, grinding misery of the aftershocks. The withdrawal cramps. Her body was trying to restart a system that had been offline for who knew how long, and the engine was misfiring.
I closed my eyes, tipping my head back against the doorframe.
I sat there. The thought replayed in my head on a loop, years old and rotting. I saw the gymnasium, the microphone stand next to me, and her shaking. Silence.
Not this time.
"Tessa," I said.
My voice was low. I didn't knock. I just let the baritone rumble of my chest travel through the wood, a localized earthquake meant only for her.
The sounds inside paused. A held breath.
"Go away," she whispered. The defiance was there, but it was paper-thin, tearing at the edges.
"I can hear you," I said softly, staring at my hands, hands that were too big, too useless when it mattered. "The cramps are hitting."
"I have... I have pills," she gasped. "I took them."
"Stabilizers take forty minutes to kick in on a system this stressed," I recited, the medical data Anders had relayed to us earlier sticking in my brain. "You're in the gap."
Another sound from inside, a thump, like a fist hitting the mattress, followed by a high, keen whine that twisted my gut.
"Let me in, Tessa," I said. "I have the heating pad from the kit. I can help."
"No!" The refusal was sharp, panicked. "You promised! You said... you said you wouldn't touch me."
"I won't," I vowed, leaning my head closer to the seam of the door. "I won't put a hand on you. I’ll just set up the heat and leave. Or I can apply the pressure. You know the weight helps."
"I don't want your weight!" she cried out, though the sentence ended in a sob. "It's too much. Everything is too much. My skin hurts. The quiet hurts."
The quiet.
I remembered that. The silence of the auditorium. The way the lack of sound amplified the wet slap of her tears hitting the floorboards. Silence wasn't peace for her; silence was a spotlight. It was the vacuum where the monsters lived.
I shifted my weight, reaching for the tablet Anders had left on the hallway console table. I swiped it open, ignoring the barrage of frantic emails from the agency, and navigated to the file structure.
The Alpha’s Oath. Draft 4.docx.
"Okay," I rumbled. "No touching. No weight."
I cleared my throat. I dropped my register, finding that sweet spot in the lower octave, the 'narrator voice.' The voice that paid my mortgage. The voice that millions of strangers used to fall asleep, because it sounded like a foundation that wouldn't crack.
"Chapter One," I read, the words resonating in the narrow hallway. "The wind off the Iron Sea didn't moan; it threatened. It tore at the banners of Highkeep, stripping the silk to ribbons, just as the Council had stripped Lady Charlotte of her titles."
"What are you doing?" she whispered, closer to the door now.
"Reading," I said, keeping the rhythm steady, rolling the vowels.
I paused the story though. "You know," I added, my tone lighter as I tried to distract her, "the studio is already asking who we should cast for the dual-narration release. They’re chasing Isobel Gretan.
I spent half the drive up here trying to do an impression of her, you know, that way she has of making even a description of the weather sound like a confession. "
I cleared my throat and attempted a hushed, velvety lilt that was entirely too high for my register. Tessa gave a small, shaky breath that might have been a laugh if she had the strength.
"Stick to being a mountain, Daniel," she whispered. "No one can do Isobel. She has a gift for finding the secrets between the lines."
"She does," I admitted, a hint of professional respect in my rumble. "But if we get her, your readers won't just hear the story, they’ll live in it."
Tessa made a sound of approval from the other side of the door that turned into a whine of pain.
"She stood on the battlements, shivering not from the cold, but from the rage boiling in her marrow. They thought she was broken. They thought she was a porcelain doll to be shelved."
I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat, then filled it.
"They were wrong. Porcelain shatters. Iron just hardens."
I heard a slide. A click.
The heavy brass bolt snapped back.
The doorknob turned, and the door creaked open a few inches. I froze, listening to her footsteps retreating before I opened the door a little further.
The scent hit me instantly, blackberries and brine, sharp and acidic with pain. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the slate-grey light of the rainy afternoon.
Tessa was on the bed. She had kicked the duvet off, tangling her legs in the top sheet, and was still wearing that oversized grey t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, her skin flushed a feverish pink, sweat dampening her hairline.
She was curled around a pillow, clutching it to her stomach, her knuckles white.
She looked at me with eyes that were glassy and wide.
"You have a good voice," she rasped.
"I know," I said gently.
I didn't stand up. I didn't loom. I stayed close to the floor, pivoting on my hip and scooting forward, crossing the threshold on my knees, dragging the tablet with me. I stopped three feet from the bed.
"Keep reading," she demanded, squeezing her eyes shut as another cramp seized her, her body bowing around the pillow. "Just... don't stop. Fill the air. Please. Make the silence go away."
I sat cross-legged on the rug, my back to the dresser, giving her space. I looked at the text, but I was aware of every breath she took.
"Charlotte turned from the edge," I read, pushing more air through my diaphragm, making the sound richer. "The vibration of the approaching army rattled the stones beneath her feet. Fear was a taste she knew well, metallic and cold. But she swallowed it."
"Ahhh..." Tessa whimpered, digging her heels into the mattress. She rolled onto her back, her knees falling open, abandoning modesty in the face of agony.
I kept reading. I read through her gasps, through the sound of her heels drumming against the sheets. I built a wall of sound around her, a fortress of words to keep the silence at bay.
But it wasn't enough.
Five minutes in, the cramps shifted. This wasn't just a muscle spasm; it was a biological riot.
Tessa let out a scream, a strangled, high-pitched sound that cut through my narration like a knife. She arched off the mattress, her hands clawing at her lower belly, trying to dig the pain out.
"It burns!" she sobbed, tears leaking from her squeezed-shut eyes. "It feels like... like barbed wire. Make it stop."
I dropped the tablet.
The "Unless you beg" rule died in my throat. This wasn't a power play. This was suffering.
"Tessa." I was up on my knees, moving to the side of the bed before I processed the decision.
"No hands!" she gasped, shrinking away from me even as her body twisted. "You promised! I can't... I can't take the weight."
"No hands," I agreed, my voice rough. "No weight."
I grabbed her ankle gently, just for a second, to anchor her. She kicked out, but the fight was weak.
"I can help," I told her, leaning over her, my face inches from her thigh. "The vibration helps the cramping. You know that. It breaks the tension in the muscle fascia."
She blinked, looking down at me through a haze of pain. "What?"
"My voice," I said. "Let me use it."
I didn't wait for a contract to be signed. I saw the desperation in her eyes, the way her hips were already twitching, seeking pressure, seeking anything to override the signals firing from her womb.
There was nothing I could do to help if I didn’t bend the rules a little. Still, I kept my hands flat on the mattress on either side of her hips and didn't touch her skin. I respected the boundary of the grip, even as I shattered the boundary of space.
I lowered my head.
The scent of her was overwhelming this close, salt, sweet berries, and sweat. It was the smell of the ocean right before a hurricane. It filled my nose, my lungs, drugging me.
I breathed on her. The warmth of my breath hit the thin cotton of her panties, damp with her slickness.
She flinched, a sharp inhale.
"Daniel?"
"I've got you," I hummed against her inner thigh.
I pressed my face against her.
I didn't kiss. Not yet. I rested my cheek against the curve of her pubic bone, right over the cramping knot of muscles. And I spoke.
"Breathe," I rumbled.