The book of poems slipped from my hands and thudded onto the carpet.

“What… What is that?” I whispered.

Slowly, the man turned around.

He was staggeringly handsome. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a straight nose. And beneath thick dark brows were eyes that I knew better than my own reflection.

Dark. Steady. Soft now with an emotion I had never seen on them before.

Fear.

“Clara,” said Don Baste, in a voice that was no longer gravel, but low and warm and trembling. “Please. Before you run… let me explain.”

---

PART 6: STRIPPING THE SKIN

I don’t remember sitting down.

One moment I was standing frozen in the doorway. The next, I was in the armchair by the fire, my hands gripping the armrests, my mind spinning like a broken compass.

He stayed by the window, as though afraid to come closer.