SPECTRAL.

† F O U R T E E N †

     The east wing swallowed us into quieter shadows. The music dulled into a muffled throb, like a heartbeat behind a wall. When Troy opened the door, the room unfolded before me like something torn from another world entirely.

     It was grand in a way that didn't belong to a college party at all. The walls were deep mahogany, polished and gleaming under the glow of golden lamps. A rug sprawled across the hardwood floor—thick, intricate, crimson with black floral designs twisting like vines through its weave. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows, their fabric a rich burgundy that seemed to drink in the light. An oak bookshelf lined one wall, brimming with leather-bound volumes whose spines gleamed with gilded lettering. Above the mantle of an unused fireplace hung an oil painting of a stern man with eyes too sharp, his presence looming even in silence.

     The furniture carried the weight of history: a high-backed armchair upholstered in velvet, a low polished table, and a wide fainting couch cushioned in dark green. It was old money, old taste—the kind of room that hummed with secrets.

     Troy led me to the fainting couch, his hand guiding me down until I sat. "You good?" he asked, crouching slightly to meet my eye level.

     "Yes," I managed, though the word was half-swallowed by the sting in my knee. "Very comfortable."

     "Good." He nodded, then eased onto the couch beside me. His presence was close enough to warm, steady enough to anchor. He reached gently for my leg. "Now, let's see."

     I stiffened as he lifted my injured leg, setting it across his thigh with deliberate care. Confusion rolled through me in waves. Why was he doing this? Why was he so gentle? No one had ever looked at me with such…quiet focus. But I couldn't bring myself to ask.

     His fingers brushed along the torn denim, careful, measured. He examined the wound as best he could through the fabric before placing my leg back down with the same tenderness. Rising, he said, "Stay here. I'll get a first aid kit from Jasmine."

     And then he was gone, leaving me alone in the silence of that vast, heavy room.

     I let my eyes wander to the bookshelves, the oil painting, the details of the rug beneath my feet. The room felt alive, as though every item inside it had a memory, and each memory whispered beneath the stillness. For a fleeting second, I wondered what kind of man Jasmine's uncle was, why he needed a room so drenched in authority and weight.

     When Troy returned, he carried a small white box. He set it down beside me with a soft thud, then reclaimed his seat. "Alright," he said, lifting my leg again. His tone softened. "This is gonna hurt."

     Before I could question, the sound of fabric tearing cut the air. He slid a small blade through the denim, peeling it open around my knee to expose the wound.

     Blood glistened dark against my skin, the scrape raw and angry, oozing in thin rivers. The half-dark of the room made it worse, shadows accentuating every edge of torn flesh.

     Troy's expression never faltered. He cleaned the wound with steady hands, his touch careful but firm. The antiseptic burned like fire, and I hissed, my fingers gripping the couch. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice low, steady.

     I stole glances at him in those moments—the way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the faint line of his jaw tightening as though he carried some unspoken weight. And I wondered, over and over, why he was here. Why he cared.

     Finally, the words tumbled out. "Why are you helping me?"

     His eyes flicked up, just for a moment. "Because you needed help. Obviously."

     I swallowed, my throat tight. "You do realize McKayla's in this house. What if she sees you like this—helping me?"

     For the first time since I'd known him, Troy chuckled. The sound was warm, unexpected, like a ripple breaking still water. I blinked, confusion tangling in me. Why was he laughing?

     "McKayla?" he said, shaking his head, amusement curling in his mouth. "She's not my girlfriend. Not even close. Matter of fact, I'm single. So don't worry about anyone catching me helping you, Summer."

     I froze. Single. The word felt strange, heavier than it should have. But another thought cut sharper.

     "How do you even know my name?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

     That smirk of his again, crooked, almost dangerous. "Let's just say I've made my findings. Now hold still."

     The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the careful motions of his hands as he wrapped the bandage. My heart thudded too loud in my chest, every beat echoing like it wanted out.

     Then, softly, Troy asked, "What really happened out there, Summer?"

     The question sliced through me. My breath caught, and for a moment I wondered if he somehow knew—if he'd seen the figure, the cries, the shadows. But I forced my voice even, steady. "I told you. I tripped and fell."

     His eyes lifted to mine, piercing. "No, not only that. You were running, and you weren't just running. You were running in fear. We collided because you were running from something, weren't you? Did you see it? Was it after you?"

     Panic clawed at me. I shook my head too quickly. "No. I…there was nothing. I was in a hurry back to the house, that's all. Just to get help."

     "Help from what?" His voice was sharp, direct. He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto mine.

     My pulse spiked beneath his gaze. My chest tightened, heat rushing to my face. Why was my body betraying me like this? Why did his stare unravel me?

     I broke the eye contact, staring at the rug instead. "Nothing," I muttered.

     He didn't press further. He only finished wrapping the bandage, securing it with a practiced precision before leaning back. "Get some rest."

     The words startled me. Rest? Here? At a party?

     "I need to get back to the dorm," I protested.

     "You can't," Troy countered, calm but firm. "Not like this. Not alone. And not with your knee like that."

     "McKayla will come with me."

     "She won't," Troy said easily. "She left with some people a while ago."

     Confusion tangled with hurt. Of course she'd left. I'd stormed out, made her think I was gone. She had every reason.

     "Stay here tonight," Troy continued, his voice steady. "I'll walk you back in the morning."

     I stayed silent, turning the thought over and over. He took my silence as agreement, rising to his feet. "I'll get you a blanket."

     When he returned, he draped it gently over me, but when he leaned in to adjust it, I lifted a hand. "I can manage."

     He paused, then nodded. "Alright. But I'll be right outside. No one's coming in here. Not while I'm out there."

     And with that, he left.

     Only then, with the door clicking shut, did I finally let my body sink into the couch, the blanket wrapping me in warmth. My eyes burned with exhaustion, my knee pulsed, and yet…it wasn't just the injury or the fear outside that kept me awake. It was him.

     And the silence of that heavy room.