Chapter 155: Just the Three of Us
They finished their soup in a heavy silence, the clinking of spoons against earthenware sounding like pickaxes striking a grave. The red-haired servant returned, like an efficient ghost with pale hands, to clear the empty bowls.
She left behind her a trail of cold indifference and a fleeting scent of harsh soap. Around them, the inn lived in muffled tones: hushed whispers, the scrape of a chair, a sigh from a customer leaning on his elbows. A scene of normalcy that felt off—like a spider’s web stretched over a chasm.
It was in this hushed quiet that Élisa turned her gaze on Dylan. Her eyes, storm-grey like a North Sea squall, pierced the gloom and locked onto his, clear and commanding. No more teasing, no more morning lethargy. A naked blade.
"Do we do it in your room?" Her voice was clear, sharp, deliberately loud. She didn’t care about ears that might be listening or eyes that might turn. It was an order dressed as a question. A call to immediate motion.
Dylan didn’t flinch. Just a slow nod, heavy with implications. His smile, when he turned to Maggie, regained that charming, slightly tired glint he wore so naturally. A striking contrast to Élisa’s gravity.
"Bit early," he admitted, voice still rough with sleep, "but I’d love to." The irony was palpable, laced with a quiet thrill. Love to. The words echoed strangely in the moment. Love what, exactly? What could a man and two women possibly be up to in a room at this hour?
They rose in unison, the wood of the bench groaning beneath their sudden movement. Jonas, watching them with the lazy interest of a well-fed predator, made a move to follow—but a sharp look from Élisa, hard as steel, pinned him in place. He raised his hands in mock surrender, a sly grin playing through his beard.
"Go on, lovebirds. I’ll see if this inn offers more than soup and stale hope." His gaze lingered on Maggie with an intensity that betrayed his feigned disinterest.
Dylan led the way to the stairs. Élisa followed close behind, upright and purposeful, her steps precise. Maggie brought up the rear, her stride casual, a mysterious smile curling her lips. The staircase, more treacherous in the stark morning light, groaned under their weight.
Dylan felt eyes at their back—those of the other patrons, frozen in their dull breakfasts, and especially, he was certain, those of the red-haired waitress, lurking somewhere in the shadows of the back room. A prickle ran across his skin.
The hallway upstairs was bathed in milky light, filtered through grimy corner windows. Dust danced in the beams. The silence here was deeper, more intimate, laced with muffled sounds from other rooms—a cough, the creak of a bedspring.