(Isobel's Point Of View)
The pounding on the door intensified, a staccato that rattled the picture frames and pressed cold air into the room.
"We need to leave," Etienne said, already pulling on a shirt. "Now."
I scrambled out of bed, hands skidding over the rumpled duvet as I hunted for my clothes. They lay in small, guilty heaps across the floor from last night — a stray sock, a camisole tangled with a blouse — the faint scent of his aftershave and the hotel's citrus cleaner clinging to fabric. For a moment I tasted the ordinary ease of hours ago and it felt like another life.
"Where are we going to go?" I asked, hauling on my jeans. "They're in the hallway."
"Service entrance. Marcus is sending a car." He was typing rapidly on his phone, thumbs moving like nervous birds. "We have maybe five minutes before they figure out where we're going."
Another knock, harder this time, thudded through the wood. "Mr. Moreau, you need to open this door."
