Haustus, page 5
“You joke, but don’t you think it’s strange?” she asked, suddenly serious. “I’d never met him in person. I’d seen him in magazines. But when I saw him talking to Heath… there was something odd about the way they looked at each other. Like they understood each other without speaking. Like they shared something… I don’t know.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, remembering the weight of Heath’s gaze locked with mine, that thick sensation settling in my stomach.
“Yes. I noticed,” I finally said, almost in a whisper.
Kaylie glanced at me from the corner of her eye, as if she wanted to ask more, but held back. She adjusted the neckline of her dress, slipped her expert socialite smile back into place, and waved to a man holding a glass of whiskey who seemed to recognize her.
I told Kaylie I needed some air. I was starting to feel suffocated between the cloud of expensive perfume, the forced laughter, and the champagne flutes I couldn’t tell were real or just part of the set design.
Inside the museum, at the far end of the hallway, there was a large double door flanked by two faceless statues. When I pushed it open, I found myself in a loggia that looked as if it had been pulled from a gothic dream.
Vast. Immense. I had never seen anything like it.
I would have simply called it a “balcony,” but this place deserved something far more dignified. It was elegant, refined, built with columns of dark stone and railings carved with symbols I couldn’t decipher. The floor was cold black marble veined with silver, gleaming under the moonlight. The air smelled of damp night and silence.
From there, London stretched before me like an impossible postcard.
The city lights flickered with the calm of a sleeping heart, and for a moment, I felt outside of time. Everything looked cleaner, more cinematic. As if the city, under the veil of night, shed its chaos and offered only its beauty.
I hadn’t realized how beautiful this city was from above.
I turned to go back inside—but then I saw him.
In one of the loggia’s corners, half-hidden in the shadow of a column, he stood.
Leaning against the railing with an almost offensive ease, smoking a cigarette as if it were his profession. The smoke rose in slow spirals, dissolving into the breeze, and the way he held it between his fingers—with that indolent, almost poetic gesture—seemed choreographed by someone who understood all too well the power of detail.
God. This man couldn’t be more perfect. And the worst part was, he knew it.
He smoked with the same precision others might use to sign secret treaties—with style, with control, with the discipline of someone trained his entire life never to reveal what he didn’t want to show.
In that instant, his eyes met mine.
And he smiled.
Not just any smile.
One with an edge. As if something hid behind it.
A mixture of seduction, recognition… and was that—pleasure?
As if he enjoyed that I’d found him. As if he’d been expecting me to.
My heart reacted before I did.
A sharp, dry, unwelcome beat.
What a strange man, I thought, swallowing hard.
And yet, I didn’t move.
Something in me wanted to stay there, under the London night, looking at a man who seemed carved by mystery itself.
He approached slowly, each step measured and silent, as if he were walking not on marble but on mist.
The smoke from his cigarette unraveled around him, cloaking him like an elegant specter who knew exactly what he was doing with every gesture.
“Do you smoke?” he asked with a crooked, seductive smile, as if the question wasn’t really about cigarettes.
“No,” I replied, forcing each syllable to sound indifferent, as if his nearness didn’t affect me. As if that deep voice and damned British accent weren’t crawling down my spine.
He let out a soft laugh—more an exhale of amusement than an actual chuckle.
“Are you following me, Miss Bennett?” he asked with feigned innocence, though his tone was anything but innocent. “First at the airport… then at the museum… and now here, under the moon. Should I feel… frightened?”
I arched a brow at him.
“How do you know my last name?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise entirely.
He didn’t answer right away. He just held my gaze with that unyielding intensity, as if he could see straight through my replies, my intentions… even my fears.
Then, slowly, his eyes drifted downward. Not crudely—something far more deliberate, almost elegant.
I felt examined, exposed, yet… curiously alive.
“I know many things, Sarah,” he finally replied, letting my name slide from his tongue like a shared secret.
He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and for a second, the smoke settled between us.
A barrier.
An invitation.
“And should I be impressed or concerned?” I asked, folding my arms, pretending his answer didn’t unsettle me.
“Perhaps both,” he murmured with a half-smile, glancing out at the city. “London has a curious way of bringing the right people together… and sometimes the wrong ones.”
His words lingered in the air, as weighted as the smoke he’d just released.
Then he looked back at me. This time without a smile. Only those clear, deep eyes that seemed to ask questions I didn’t even know how to answer.
I stayed silent. So did he.
For a few seconds that felt eternal, the only thing that existed was the distant hum of the city, the muted whisper of nighttime traffic, and the faint crackle of the cigarette burning between his fingers.
I stood my ground—arms crossed, back straight, face composed.
But inside… something trembled.
Not from physical fear, not from any obvious danger. This was another kind of fear. An intimate one. As if something told me this man was more than he seemed, and if I let my guard down for even a second, there would be no going back.
“Do you always have that look?” I finally asked, just to break the silence—or to protect myself from him.
“What look?”
“The one that says you know everything, but you’re not about to share it.”
A faint smile touched his lips, as if amused that I was trying to read him.
“Not everything deserves to be shared,” he replied. “Some truths are more dangerous than lies.”
“And you decide which is which?”
“Sometimes. Other times, I just watch.”
He tapped the ash from his cigarette into a stone ashtray by the railing. He never looked away from me. As if measuring my reactions, my gestures, my silences.
“You don’t seem comfortable at events like this,” he said, as if making an offhand remark, though there was an edge buried in his tone.
“And what makes you think that?”
“Your posture. The way you look at people. You’re here, but you don’t want to be.”
“Well,” I said, arching a brow, “do you give psychological readings in your spare time too?”
“I don’t need to. You’re transparent,” he said—and then added, after a weighted pause, “but not in the way you think.”
I didn’t answer. I simply held his gaze.
I knew he was trying to provoke me. But I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction so easily.
“And you?” I asked, turning the game back on him. “What exactly do you do, Diplomat Ashwyck?”
His smile tightened ever so slightly. Not discomfort—more like careful evasion.
“I talk to interesting people on balconies at midnight,” he said evenly.
“How specific.”
“I like moments that feel outside of time.”
There was something in his voice when he said that. Something that wasn’t seduction. Not entirely.
It was… nostalgia. Or loneliness.
A subtle crack in his marble perfection.
“You seem like you’re from another era,” I said without thinking.
He turned to me slowly, and for an instant, his expression shifted. His eyes—so intense it hurt to look at them too long—softened, as if I’d touched a point few dared to approach.
“Perhaps I am,” he whispered.
And there it was again—that unexplainable sensation in my stomach.
I stepped closer. Not entirely by choice. Just a single step. Barely a movement, but one he noticed instantly.
“Why me?” I finally asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You could have spoken to anyone tonight. Perfect women. Important people. Why me?”
His answer didn’t come immediately. He took his time. Extinguished the cigarette with care, set it aside, then stepped closer.
Dangerously close.
I could see the texture of his skin, the faint glint in his eyes, even the rhythm of his breathing.
“I’m still figuring that out,” he murmured.
“I’m nothing special.”
His words cut through me like a whisper inside a nightmare.
There was something about him that wasn’t normal. That wasn’t human in the everyday sense. Not for anything tangible… but for the way he perceived.
“You don’t scare me,” I said coolly.
“No. But you feel something,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “You don’t know what it is… and that unsettles you.”
Silence.
His eyes sought mine. I didn’t blink.
I refused to step back. To give ground. Even though the floor no longer felt entirely solid beneath me.
“You should go back inside,” he finally said, his voice softer now.
“Why?” I asked, my tone steadier than I actually felt.
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me.
But it wasn’t an ordinary look. It was a silent study.
“Because there are places where the night watches… and you don’t yet know what’s watching you,” he said at last, his voice almost poetic.
“Do you always speak in riddles?” I shot back, trying to keep my irony afloat.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering something. As if measuring each of my reactions with surgical precision.
“No. Only when I know the truth wouldn’t be welcome.”
He stepped closer. Just one step.
But the air between us shifted.
It became denser. More intimate. More… sharp.
I didn’t move back. Even though every fiber of me told me I should.
Not from physical fear.
But from that other kind.
The kind you feel in your soul when you know something is about to happen—and you stay anyway.
He looked at me as if he wasn’t seeing a person, but a choice. As if something inside him was debating whether to cross a line or not.
“You’re different, Sarah,” he said in a low, deep voice, never breaking eye contact.
“I still don’t know if that’s a compliment or a threat.”
A barely-there smile touched his lips.
“Neither do I.”
He dropped his gaze for a moment, as if making a silent decision.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He lifted his eyes, inhaled sharply, as though swallowing back a dark thought before it could escape. And for a moment, I saw something there. Something that wasn’t desire. Nor a game. Something conflicted—and darker than I could name.
I swallowed hard. My heart was beating too fast. Too hard.
“Should I be afraid of you?”
Silence.
Another weighted pause.
Another look.
“Not in the way you imagine.”
He sounded sincere. Absolutely sincere.
Then he stepped back, as if forcing himself to break something invisible.
And then he left.
I stayed there alone, wrapped in cold air and questions I didn’t yet know how to begin asking myself.
Chapter Twelve
“He told you that?” Kaylie asked, eyes wide, as if she’d just heard a forbidden confession from a gothic novel. We were curled up on the sofa under blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the low table. Outside, it was raining—because of course… London never disappoints when it comes to atmospheric clichés.
“Yes.” I nodded without looking at her, slowly turning the glass in my hand, watching the wine form crimson spirals against the crystal. “Exactly. Those were his words.”
“And don’t you think it’s… I don’t know… strange?” she said, leaning toward me with one perfectly arched brow. “But at the same time, like… absurdly hot?”
“Honestly, I found it more strange than anything,” I exhaled, not bothering to hide it. “Unsettling, even. Like there’s something that doesn’t fit, you know? There’s something about him… that isn’t normal.”
“Of course it doesn’t fit!” Kaylie shot upright. “Sarah, we’re talking about Heath Ashwyck. That man looks like he stepped out of a Greek myth, but with a British accent and a wardrobe crafted by gods. Nobody actually knows anything about him. Only rumors—and every single one of them sounds like it was written by a dark fantasy author.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Kaylie,” I laughed, bringing the glass to my lips. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” She gave me that look of hers—a perfect blend of sarcasm and utter seriousness. Her tone was sweet but sharp, like a knife wrapped in velvet. “Sarah, we’re not talking about some charming guy. This man has no social media. He doesn’t give interviews. He doesn’t even have a damn Wikipedia page. And trust me—I checked. And now you’re telling me he just walked up to you… out of nowhere?”
“Maybe he was just bored,” I said with a shrug. “Saw me alone, made a cryptic comment, smoked a cigarette like he was in a movie, and that was it. Not a big deal.”
“And he knew your name? Just like that?” Kaylie’s voice dropped in volume, turning serious—almost intimate. “Because honestly, I’d be terrified. Or have a spontaneous orgasm. I’m not sure. I’m conflicted.”
“Kaylie,” I laughed, nearly choking on the wine. “God!”
“I’m serious,” she insisted, her eyes now locked on mine. “There’s something in his aura. Dark. Elegant. Silent. It’s not normal. And you know it. You felt it. Don’t deny it.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, then lowered my gaze.
“Maybe…”
Kaylie leaned back, resting her head against the couch, wine still in hand, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“I don’t know, Sarah… There’s something strange about this. About all of this. And I don’t just mean the fact that he’s mysterious.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said at last, more to convince myself than her. “I doubt I’ll see him again. It was probably one of those odd things that happen once. A surreal moment and that’s it. End of story.”
Kaylie didn’t say anything. She just looked at me with that expression she wore when she knew something was far from over.
Chapter Thirteen
One month.
It had been a month since that night at the museum.
Since his gaze. Since his voice.
But I hadn’t seen him again.
Not a sign. Not a whisper.
I clung to that idea—to the fact that nothing had happened.
That it had been nothing more than a curious evening in a place far too elegant, filled with people far too mysterious.
And life—my real, chaotic life—went on.
Jacob and Kaylie remained some strange mix of romantic comedy and British sitcom. He’d occasionally cook English food, while she threw together breakfasts with fruit and early-2000s playlists blaring. They never stopped arguing over what show to watch or who’d eaten the last cookie, but they always ended up curled together on the couch as if nothing had happened.
I watched it all from my corner of the sofa, a mug of tea or coffee in my hands depending on the day’s level of desperation, pretending I belonged.
Sometimes, I even believed it.
But there were days—like today—when the noise of the world wore me down. Days when I felt I needed to disappear from other people’s lives for a while, just to find my own again.
And this morning, as I rinsed a mug with traces of cold coffee and listened to Kaylie talking to her plant as if it were a cat, I remembered something.
How much I used to love reading as a child.
Not to be entertained. Not to learn. But to vanish. To step into other worlds. To not be here.
So I put on a long coat, wrapped my neck in a grey wool scarf, and went out with a single destination in mind: to find a bookshop.
I walked toward the city center with no fixed route. And that’s when I saw it.
The castle.
Not a fairytale castle, of course. The Queen’s Castle. Real. Imposing. Cold and flawless in its architecture. The flags waved with arrogance, and the guards in their red uniforms stood as rigid as living statues. Everything was so perfectly British that for a moment, I felt like an extra in a period drama.
The sky was grey, but it wasn’t raining. The wet streets reflected the city’s dim lights. I passed the black iron gates adorned with gold detail and couldn’t help stopping for a moment to look. There was something in that place’s rigidity that gave me chills. Not fear exactly—just the sense of being very far from anything I knew.
And then I found it. The bookshop.
Small, almost hidden between two stone buildings, with a dark wooden façade and an old sign in gold lettering that read:
“Athanor Books – Rare & Forgotten Words”
The front window was fogged from the inside. A lamp glowed softly within, a cat was asleep on a stack of books, and a handwritten sign read: “Silence: the books are dreaming.”
Something warm stirred in my chest.
Nostalgia.
Or the urge to go in and never come out.
I pushed the door gently. A small bell chimed. And I was greeted by the perfect scent: a blend of old paper, wood, ink, and noble dust. Not the dirty dust of abandonment, but the kind that protects. That keeps.
