Chapter Twenty-one – A Whisper in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-one – A Whisper in the Dark
MALIA

The silence of Crimson Garden was a different kind of silence at night. It wasn’t peaceful. It was watchful. A hush that carried weight, as though the walls themselves held their breath.
I waited until well past midnight, lying still in bed with the sheets pulled high, counting the quiet intervals between footsteps, between doors creaking shut, between the fading echoes of movement downstairs. Eventually, even the creaks stopped. The house slept.
I didn’t.
I slipped out of bed, still fully dressed beneath the blanket, and moved quietly across the room. Every step was cautious, every sound an enemy. My hand hovered over the doorknob, waiting. Listening.
Then I opened it.
The hallway beyond was steeped in shadow, bathed only in the faint silver glow of moonlight seeping through tall windows. I padded barefoot across the cold floor, clutching the pin I’d taken from my hair earlier that evening—just in case.
The forbidden hallway was colder. Like it remembered what it wasn’t allowed to speak about.
I reached the first door. Old wood. Sturdy. No handle jiggle, no push or pull would move it.
Locked.
Of course.
I crouched, trying to slide the pin into the lock like I’d seen in movies. My fingers were awkward. My posture worse. I had no idea what I was doing.
Click. Scrape. Nothing.
“Dammit,” I hissed softly under my breath as the pin slipped and clattered to the ground, bouncing once before landing near the baseboard. “Shit.”
I reached for it—but froze.
Something shifted behind me. Air. Presence.
A voice, smooth and low, much too close to my ear.
“What are you doing, Gattina?”
I jumped, nearly slipping from my crouch. I spun around—too fast—and stumbled backward, slamming my shoulder lightly into the door behind me.
Marcello.
His face hovered just a breath from mine, sharp lines illuminated in fractured moonlight. His hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and he wore no jacket—just a black shirt rolled up to his forearms, sleeves rumpled, as if he hadn’t intended to sleep tonight.
Just like the first time.
The night he’d scared me in front of the factory.
My heart beat wildly, not just from the startle—but from that look in his eyes.
He didn’t look angry. He looked… amused.
And a little too pleased to have caught me.
“Well?” he said again, slower this time. “Is there something you need from the forbidden wing?”
I swallowed hard, willing my voice not to betray the guilt I wore like a coat.
“You said it wasn’t important.”
“I also said you weren’t ready.”
“Maybe I am.”
His smile twitched, something dark and knowing creeping into it. “So you were going to what—pick the lock with a hairpin?”
I said nothing.
He bent down slowly, retrieved the pin I’d dropped, and held it up between two fingers, inspecting it with theatrical interest.
“Criminal skills need practice, gattina,” he murmured, slipping the pin into the pocket of his trousers. “This isn’t a fairy tale. And this,” he gestured behind me at the locked door, “isn’t a mystery you solve just because you're curious.”
I straightened, defiant despite my racing pulse.
“I’m not afraid of locked doors.”
“You should be.” He stepped closer. I didn’t move. “Because some of them are locked for a reason.”
His gaze held mine longer than it should have. My breath caught in my throat.
And then, just when I thought he might say something else—he stepped back.
“Come. I’ll walk you to your room.”
“I can find my way,” I muttered.
“I know,” he said, but he stayed right beside me anyway. “But if I let you walk alone, you might try to break into the armory next.”
I shot him a look, but he was already turning away.
The silence between us was thick—not hostile, but humming with the aftermath of what  wasn’t said. His steps were quiet, precise, like he could disappear if he wanted to, and maybe he could. The hallway stretched ahead like a sleeping beast, one that tolerated us only because we tread carefully.
“You always this stealthy when you sneak up on people?” I asked, just to fill the air.
“I wasn’t sneaking. You’re just very bad at not getting caught.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, “I didn’t realize I was living under surveillance.”
“You’re not,” he said. “Just... under the same roof.”
“So same thing.”
His smirk returned, subtle but unmistakable. “If I wanted to monitor your every move, you’d never know I was doing it.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
We passed the staircase, its banister throwing jagged shadows across the floor. I had the sudden feeling that if I looked over my shoulder, the hallway would have swallowed itself whole again—that the door would vanish, and I’d be left wondering if it was ever really there.
Marcello slowed near the archway that led back to the east wing. “You’re stubborn,” he said after a beat. “I expected you to be angry, but not stupid.”
I turned toward him fully, planting my feet. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, calm as ever. “That door you were so desperate to open? You don’t know what kind of weight you’d be dragging behind you if it actually worked.”
“So explain it to me,” I challenged. “Tell me what’s behind it.”
“I don’t owe you explanations,” he said, but his voice didn’t have its usual edge. He sounded… tired. “And even if I did, you wouldn’t believe me. Not yet.”
The words hung between us like a fraying thread.
“Then make me believe.”
He looked at me for a long time. So long I started to wonder if he’d even heard me.
Then he said, softly, “It’s not about belief. It’s about what you’ll become once you know.”
That landed somewhere I didn’t like.
My chest tightened. “So you think I’ll change.”
“I know you will,” he said. “Because some knowledge doesn’t let you stay the same. Just like actions.”
The quiet stretched again. He looked down, then past me toward the end of the hall.
“Come on,” he said again, more gently now. “It’s late.”
I turned without another word and walked the rest of the way back in silence.
When we reached my door, he stopped just short of it.
“You’re not a prisoner here,” he said, eyes on the wood grain instead of me. “But some doors—once opened—can’t be closed again. Keep that in mind.”
I didn’t answer.
Because a part of me already knew he was right.
That didn’t mean I’d stop trying, but for now I would let the subject rest.