The quiet of the night seemed to press in heavier now that she was alone with him. The vast chamber suddenly felt too small beneath the weight of his undivided attention.
Placing the half-finished plate on the table, Anneliese—too aware of his presence—met his gaze, sharp and attentive, as if every rhythm of her heartbeat was being read and measured behind that impenetrable calm.
She finally asked, her voice small yet guarded, "Why did you ask for me to come here?"
Without looking away, he asked, "How are you feeling?" There was a rare softness in his tone. "I can see the strain in your eyes… and hear it in your pulse."
"You tell me," she murmured. Her fingers curled in her lap, but she didn't look away. "I don't… I don't understand you. One moment I want to trust you; the next, I want to run from you. Sometimes… you seem to have a heart of kindness—even compassion—and then, the next moment, it's as if you don't have a heart at all."
