In the dark, it’s almost imperceptible. Just the faintest twitch of metal, a hint of movement in the darkness. But I see it. The brass lever dips a fraction of an inch, catches on nothing—because, obviously, there’s no lock for it to catch on—and then stops and reverses.
He’s standing right there, on the other side of that door, testing to see if he has the strength to resist.
My fingers curl into the sheets. Every nerve ending is screaming at me to call out, to say something, anything…
Open it. Please, for the love of God, just open it…
I will the thought at him with everything I have. I imagine it passing through the wood in a telepathic beam, wrapping around him, urging him forward.
Open the door, Lukas. I’m right here. I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting.
But the handle doesn’t move a
