Page 3 of Crown of Blood

But he just sighs and pushes back from the desk. “I’m not supposed to comp staff rooms without manager sign-off.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna owe me.”

“I know that too.”

He huffs, but grabs a key from behind the counter and slides it toward me. Room 309. One of the shittier suites—the ones with the squeaky beds and threadbare towels. I could kiss him for it.

“Just for tonight, Bianca.”

“Just tonight,” I echo, curling my fingers around the key like it’s a lifeline. “Thanks.”

The elevator ride is worse than the rain. Small. Bright. Quiet enough that I can hear the wet squish of my shoes and the soft hitch of my breath as I press the button for the third floor.

I don’t sob. Not really.

But the tears come falling in the silence anyway. My mascara’s already ruined, so I don’t bother wiping them. Just let them fall, one by one, onto the navy carpet as the floor numbers tick up like a countdown to my collapse.

The room is exactly what I expect. Beige wallpaper. A bed that dips in the middle. A bathroom that smells faintly of old soap and bleach.

But it’s warm, it's dry, and it’s mine.

For now.

I strip out of the wet uniform piece by piece, dropping it on the floor like a snake shedding skin that no longer fits. My wine sits unopened on the nightstand, and although it's tempting me, I really don’t have the fucking energy to drink it now.

Instead, I crawl beneath the thin comforter, let the silence wrap around me, and stare at the ceiling with eyes too dry to cry anymore.

No messages from Marcus. No missed calls. Not even a lie to hold onto.

Just silence. And me.

Alone.

Just one night.Then I figure out what’s left of me.

A thud against the wall startles me awake. For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my bed, these aren't my sheets. Then reality crashes back.

The voices filter through the wall, deep and male. One speaks in careful, measured tones that make my skin crawl.

“You were warned.”

It’s not the words that jolt me upright in the bed. It’s the weight in them. Like each syllable could crush a man if spoken just a little louder.

“I—I didn’t know he’d talk. I swear, I didn’t know.”

A second voice answers. It sounds younger. Shakier. Less practiced at hiding the fear oozing through the hotel wall.

“I fucking warned you… If he talked, we bury your whole family.”

I sit up straighter, the bedsheets tangled around my legs.

That line doesn’t sound metaphorical. Not like some vague threat you throw around in frustration.

Bury your whole family?

My heart pounds against my ribs as I strain to listen. Maybe it's just a movie playing too loud—the walls in these old London hotels are paper-thin. But the voices sound too raw, too immediate.

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