Cassian's footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty stairwell each one a drumbeat against his ribs, each breath too shallow, too fast. The air smelled of polished wood and distant perfume, but all he could taste was fear. His palms were slick with sweat, his throat dry as dust. He slowed as he reached the seventh-floor hallway silent, carpeted in deep burgundy, lit only by the occasional wall sconce casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to reach for him.
Room 73.
The number glowed faintly in brushed steel, cold and indifferent. Cassian stopped in front of it, heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest, like it knew something he didn't. He could still turn back. Run. Scream for Aiden. Text Leonel. But then he remembered Lucian's eyes at the party cold, betrayed, furious and the quiet threat coiled beneath every word he'd ever whispered
"You don't know how fucked up the shit I'll do to you all."
He took a long, shaky breath. Gripped the handle. Turned it.
