Page 41 of Hallow’s Crown

The skin blanches, then floods back red. My print is visible for three seconds. I watch it fade, then look him in the face.

“Out,” I say.

He opens the door, steps through. I follow, and for a brief moment, we are simply standing on the top step. Beyond it, the driveway curves down to the main road, lined with gravel and early leaves.

He waits for me, just inside the threshold.

I tap a button, summon the car. It arrives within thirty seconds, the black exterior clean. I open the passenger door for him. He gets in, shutting the door behind him. With a smirk, I head to the drivers side and slide in.

For the first time since waking, I allow myself to feel the charge of the morning. The hunger for him is worse today. Gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white, I take a deep breath then ease off. The engine hums as I start the ignition, low and guttural, a sound that vibrates through the cabin.

He stares straight ahead, hands in his lap, body rigid. His reflection in the window is just a faint outline, the rest is the world blurring past as I start the car and take us down the winding drive.

The silence in the car is louder than it was in the house.

At the first intersection, I check for tails. There are none. At the second, I turn west, toward the city. He finally speaks.

“Are we going to the Ministry?”

“No,” I say.

“Where, then?”

“My estate.”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because you belong to me,” I say, never taking my eyes off the road.

He absorbs it, then nods once. “Understood.”

We drive in silence for seven minutes, neither of us needing to fill the silence with noise. The city rises ahead, glass towers and old stone, the skyline broken by the white spike of the Ministry’s main headquarters.

I keep to the right lanes, then turn off onto a private road that winds up a wooded incline. The gates at the top are matte black, no ornament, just a single keypad. I punch in the code, and the gates swing open.

The house is glass and steel, three stories, perched on the hill like a thing that grew there by force of will. There is no lawn, only gravel and stone and the occasional line of concrete planter. The windows reflect the world away; nothing can see in.

I park at the base of the steps. He waits for me to exit before opening his door. I watch him, wanting to see if he’ll bolt, or resist, or hesitate. He does none of these.

He simply stands there, waiting.

I join him. The morning is colder up here, the air sharp with ozone and wet stone. He looks at the house, then at me.

I say, “Inside.”

He follows, perfectly in step.

At the door, I scan my print. The lock disengages. I push it open, usher him in first.

Inside, the foyer is all clean lines and shadow. I watch his eyes as he tracks the space—every doorway, every corridor, every possible exit. He’s already noting the terrain. Good. I wouldn’t want anything less.

I close the door behind us, then step close, so close his breath stirs the air at my collar.

“Take off your shoes.”

He does, leaving them exactly aligned to the floor. I like the precision. I like the discipline. We move further in and settle into the living room.

I like the way domesticity looks on him.