Chapter 5 Tessa
TESSA
The longer I stay in this house, the more it feels like being snowed into a cathedral built for silence.
Everything echoes just enough to make you feel like you’re never truly alone, but not enough to remind you anyone’s actually nearby.
That’s what makes this morning’s project so ridiculous—me, padding through ancient hallways in my socks with a breakfast tray in hand, mumbling to myself like some overly ambitious caretaker in a haunted manor.
“Toast, eggs, and fruit,” I mutter as I steady the tray. “And tea. Because coffee might be too intense, apparently.”
I didn’t even get a chance to ask what he likes. I just threw together what I could. I needed an excuse to actually go see my patient. How am I supposed to monitor vitals or take labs cooped up in a spooky gothic mansion room all day, waiting for him to allow me in?
So naturally, I’m going to invite myself carefully.
Because if this man is as sick—or as dangerous—as everyone keeps dancing around saying he is, then a warm breakfast and some quiet company might do him more good than sterile silence.
I’ve taken care of war veterans and dementia patients, people whose pain made them cruel, whose grief turned to rot.
And I know this much for sure: when people build walls that high, they usually don’t want to be alone.
They’re just scared.
I stop outside the door to what I’ve been told is his “receiving room”—a term that makes me feel like I’m in a Victorian drama—and balance the tray in one hand while I knock gently with the other.
No answer.
I wait, counting to ten in my head, watching the tray start to tremble just a little from the chill in the corridor. Still nothing. I glance down the hallway—empty, quiet, no Mary in sight—and knock again, just slightly louder.
“Mr. Crane?” I ask, my voice soft but clear. “It’s Tessa. I’ve brought breakfast.”
Silence.
I shift my weight, chewing the inside of my cheek. He might be asleep. He might be brooding in a corner like a vampire. He might be deliberately ignoring me. And part of me knows I should just leave the tray outside and go.
But something urges me forward anyway.
I curl my fingers around the old brass handle, twist it slowly. The door creaks open—unlocked. Against the rules, yes. But my nursing license has taught me when to bend rules for human needs, and this feels like one of those moments.
What I’m not expecting is to walk straight into the middle of Darius Crane’s morning routine.
He’s shirtless.
And not in the casual, caught-him-with-a-towel kind of way.
No, he’s in the middle of the room, back turned to me, bent slightly forward, running a towel through his wet hair, muscles rippling in a way that should come with a health warning.
His skin is tan and marred with old scars that look like claw marks—jagged, brutal things that rake across his back and sides.
And even though part of me knows I should absolutely turn around and back out of the room immediately.
My brain short-circuits.
My foot kicks the edge of the rug and I drop the damn tray. The crash is deafening.
Porcelain shatters, silverware clatters across the hardwood, and the delicate teacup Mary probably handpicked for its aesthetic value rolls mournfully under the armchair.
Darius whirls around.
I freeze.
And then time stops.
He’s not just shirtless. He’s feral. His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile uphill, his eyes glowing faintly—not metaphorically, not poetically, but actually glowing, like there’s fire beneath his skin.
His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscles twitch.
There’s a stillness in his body that feels like it’s holding back an avalanche.
I lift my hands slowly. “I—um. Sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought…”
His gaze flicks to the tray. Then back to me.
I take a step back. “I was just trying to bring you breakfast. I’ll clean this up. I didn’t mean to…”
He doesn’t speak. Just grabs a shirt from the back of a chair and yanks it over his head like he’s trying to bury whatever part of himself I just saw.
The silence stretches.
And then he says—flatly, without looking at me—“Don’t come in here uninvited again.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my expression from cracking. “Right. Of course.”
I kneel to gather what I can of the tray. A chunk of toast, a whole strawberry, the remains of the teacup handle. My hands shake more than I’d like them to.
He still doesn’t move.
And just as I gather the last piece, I hear it. Barely audible. Almost lost beneath the hum of the fire behind him.
“Thank you.”
It’s not warm. It’s not inviting. But it’s there. And in this house, that’s practically a miracle.
I don’t respond. Just nod again, gather what’s left, and step out of the room as calmly as I can before my knees betray me and start to shake.
Mary finds me in the kitchen thirty minutes later, hunched over the sink trying to scrub scrambled eggs off my sweater sleeve. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching.
“I knocked,” I say finally, glancing over my shoulder. “Twice.”
“I imagine you did.”
“He didn’t answer. The door was unlocked.”
Mary nods, like that explains everything. “He’s unpredictable in the mornings. Especially this time of year.”
I tilt my head. “Because of the—what did you call it? The cycle?”
She stiffens. “I didn’t call it anything.”
“Right.” I rinse my hands. “Look, I’m not trying to pry. I just want to understand how to do my job without getting growled at.”
Mary’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something adjacent. “If he growled, he was holding back.”
I blink at her. “That supposed to be comforting?”
“No.” She steps into the room and sets a clean mug on the counter beside me. “But it should be.”
I’m not sure what that means. Not really. But she surprises me by pouring me fresh tea without being asked and even adds a splash of honey from the jar I thought no one used but me.
“You’re not the first,” she says quietly, not meeting my eyes. “To wonder how to get to him.”
I take the mug gratefully and blow on the surface. “Did any of them succeed?”
“One,” she says. “And she’s dead.”
The words hit like a slap. Cold. Final.
I swallow hard. “And you don’t think he can…?”
“Come back from it?” She finally looks at me, and this time her gaze is less frost and more fire. “I don’t know. But if he could, it would take someone patient. Quiet. Unafraid.”
“Someone like me?”
Mary shrugs. “We’ll see.”
She turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway.
“He used to laugh,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Used to cook. Used to play piano in the evenings when the wind got too loud.”
“And now?”
She meets my gaze. “Now he just listens to it.”