Chapter 7

The knock came softly at first, barely audible over the rain splashing against the window. Clarisa stirred from her sleep, her heart leaping before her mind could catch up. For a moment, she lay still, listening. The guest room was dark, the only light a ghostly shimmer from the storm outside. The digital clock beside the bed read 12:03 a.m.

Then came another knock, this time it was louder, it sounded urgent. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice trembling a little.

“It’s me, Miss Clarisa.”

The voice sounded low and strained, it was belonged to the butler, Mr. Merimax.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the handle. “Is something wrong?”

“Please, miss,” he said through the door. “It’s Master Vale. You must come quickly.”

Clarisa yanked the door open. The butler stood drenched to the bone, his usually immaculate uniform plastered against his skin. Water dripped from his hair onto the floor, his face pale beneath the dim corridor light.

“What happened?” she demanded, already reaching for her robe.

“I......I found him outside, near the garden steps,” Gerran stammered. “He was lying in the rain… unconscious. We carried him inside. He won’t wake.” Clarisa’s stomach twisted from fear “Take me to him. Now.”

They hurried down the endless hallways, the storm roaring outside, echoing through the marble corridors. The air smelled faintly of rain and panic. In the master bedroom, two maids hovered anxiously by the bed. Chris lay sprawled on the sheets, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin looked ghostly pale under the lamplight. Water pooled on the floor where they’d dragged him in.

Clarisa’s medical instincts kicked in.

“Everyone, step back!” she ordered, rushing to his side. She pressed two fingers against his throat. A pulse, weak but it was there. Then his wrist. Slow. Steady. But his breathing was shallow, erratic.

“His body temperature’s dropped,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “He’s hypothermic. How long was he outside?”

“I can’t say, miss,” Gerran murmured. “When I made my rounds at eleven, he wasn’t there. I found him just now… near the cliff edge.”

Clarisa’s eyes snapped up. “The cliff? Dear God, he could have fallen!”

She leaned over Chris, brushing the soaked strands of hair from his forehead. His lips were blue. Without hesitation, she began chest compressions........steady, firm, counting softly under her breath. When his body didn’t respond, she tilted his chin and began rescue breaths.

“Come on, Chris,” she whispered between compressions. “Breathe. You stubborn man… breathe.”

On the third cycle, he coughed, a deep, ragged sound that sent a shiver through her. Water spilled from his mouth as his chest rose sharply.

“Easy,” she said, supporting him as he gasped for air. “You’re safe. You’re inside now.” His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glassy, and sharp. They locked on her face as though anchoring to the only thing real.

“Clarisa…” His voice was a broken whisper. “I saw you… by the water…”

Her breath caught. “You were dreaming,” she said gently. “You’re cold and exhausted. We will talk later.” He didn’t seem to hear her. His gaze lingered on her face, searching for something she couldn’t name. Then his lashes fluttered, and his head fell back against the pillow the servants had placed on the floor to support his head.

Clarisa turned to the staff. “Get blankets. Boil water. And someone prepare hot soup immediately.”

“Yes, Miss,” the maids replied, scattering.

Mr Merimax helped Clarisa to take Chris to the large double king-sized bed, they laid him gently on it, his breathing still ragged, his eyes half closed.

Minutes later, the maids brought towels, blankets, and steaming bowls of broth. Clarisa dismissed them softly, saying she would handle it from there. When the door closed, she was alone with him except for the sound of the steady hum of the storm pressing against the glass window.

She moved quickly, peeling away his soaked clothes with efficient hands, trying not to think of the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. His muscles were broad, strong and solid, his chest marred with faint scars she hadn’t noticed before. The kind that came from old pain, not recent injury.

“Why were you outside?” she murmured, draping a towel across his shoulders. “What were you doing in that storm?”

He didn’t answer, only shivered as she rubbed warmth back into his arms. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she worked, half nurse, half woman trying not to notice how impossibly beautiful he was, it stirred her innermost desires even in that moment.

When he finally stirred, she was easing a dry shirt over his head. His voice came out rough. “Clarisa…?”

“I’m here,” she said quickly, meeting his dazed eyes.

He tried to sit up, but she pressed a hand to his shoulder. “No. Lie still. You’ve been outside for God knows how long. You could have gone into shock.”

He blinked, confusion etching across his face. “I don’t remember leaving. I just… I heard something. A voice.”

Her hands paused. “A voice?” He nodded weakly. “It was calling your name. I thought you were… gone.”

Her stomach fluttered with unease. “You imagined it. You were asleep.”

“Maybe.” His gaze softened on her face. “But when I opened my eyes, I saw you running toward the sea. I tried to follow.”

Clarisa swallowed hard. “You were dreaming, Chris.”

“I know.” He gave a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But it felt real.” She busied herself ladling soup from the tray. “Here. Drink this before it gets cold.”

He obeyed, letting her guide the spoon to his lips. The warmth of the soup brought color back to his cheeks, and she caught herself smiling faintly at the sight.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured.

“At what?”

“Taking care of me.”

“It’s my job,” she replied automatically. But her voice lacked conviction.

He studied her. “You always say that like you need to remind yourself.”

She ignored the comment, setting the bowl aside. “You need rest. I will stay until you’re asleep.”

He reached for her wrist, his touch feather-light. “Don’t go far.”

“I won’t,” she whispered.

When his breathing evened, she sat back in the chair beside his bed. The rain drummed against the windows, steady and hypnotic. Despite herself, fatigue crept in, and her eyes drifted closed.

She didn’t know how long she had been asleep when she woke up. The storm had quieted to a distant murmur. For a moment, she thought everything was fine until she noticed the bed beside her.

Empty.

“Chris?” Her voice was hoarse.

She sat up, heart racing, eyes darting around the dim room. The sheets were still warm where he had slept. Then came the faint sound of footsteps, barefoot on marble, slow, somewhere in the hallway.

Clarisa stood, her pulse pounding. The door was open, wind whispering through the crack. She stepped into the corridor, the floor felt cold beneath her feet.

The mansion was dark, except for the occasional flash of lightning spilling through the windows. Shadows danced along the walls.

“Chris?” she called softly.

No answer.

She followed the sound of the footsteps until they stopped near the end of the hallway, the same corridor that led toward the locked door to that strange room she had entered before.

The faintest glimmer of light seeped from beneath it again, just like the night before.

Clarisa’s breath caught.

She reached for the handle. It turned.

The door creaked open an inch, revealing darkness beyond and the faint scent of sea air. Then a voice, low, familiar, and utterly wrong whispered from the other side.

“Clarisa…”