Page 34 of Iron Roses

Then back to me.

Oh.

Oh God.

He’s telling me to leave.

My face burns. I scramble, nearly tripping on the sheets as I slide out of the bed. My legs don’t feel like mine. I’m in a long shirt—my own—but I don’t remember putting it on. I don’t remember walking here. I don’t remember anything after…

After what?

I clutch the door frame for balance as I step into the hallway, heat blooming across my cheeks like shame.

The corridor is silent. Not cold, exactly—but heavy. Gilt-framed portraits watch from dark walls. There’s a vase of calla lilies on a lacquered table. A glass dish with silver keys. None of it is familiar.

How did I get here?

I blink hard, scanning the hallway for a clue, a ripple in memory. But it’s blank. Like something’s been scrubbed clean.

I turn once, just enough to glance back through the doorway.

He’s still standing there, towel now slung over his shoulders. Watching me.

And it hits me—

I slept in his bed.

Under his sheets, while he—what? Watched? Guarded? Carried me?

I press a palm to my temple.

The hallway stretches long and quiet, flanked by old-world paintings that seem to watch, their oil eyes flat with judgement. A carved clock ticks faintly in the distance. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to keep moving, before those grey eyes catch me again and I fall apart.

My hand skims a mahogany banister. I turn—and slam into a wall of muscle.

Lorenzo.

His fingers catch my arm before I fall back. His eyes flash—surprise, then something colder.

“Come with me,” he mutters, low and sharp, his eyes scanning the corridor like he expects to find someone eavesdropping.

“I—” My voice is paper-dry. He doesn't wait.

He pulls.

I stumble after him, breath catching as he takes the stairs two at a time. I try to keep up, but my bare feet slip against the polished steps. I nearly trip—he jerks me upright without looking back.

“Lorenzo—please—” My voice is barely above a whisper. He pulls me into a wide room—dimly lit, thick with velvet chairs and old smoke. A fire clicks in the hearth.

Allegra stands near the window.

Relief floods me so fast it makes my knees weak. She’s here.

She turns, her expression softening when she sees me. But before I can take a full step forward, Lorenzo shoves me toward her—not hard, but enough to make the point.

“If we’re going to protect her,” he growls, “then tell her she can’t go wandering around the house without permission.”

I flinch. Allegra’s eyebrows lift.

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