Chapter 11 · The Door Takes Blood

"Don't touch the lock."

Dax's hand was already on the black iron plate.

The old service door shuddered under his palm. Thin red lines crawled across the metal, following the veins in his wrist. His jaw locked. The black mark beneath his collarbone pulsed once, hard enough to make him stumble.

I caught his coat before he hit the wall.

"You said the door needed a stronger oath," he said through his teeth. "This is my oath."

"No. That's your death sentence wearing a fancy coat."

"Move."

"Try asking."

His eyes cut to mine. Silver flashed around his pupils, bright and wrong. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me against the door instead. The metal pressed cold through my shirt. His body blocked the narrow passage, one hand braced beside my head, the other still wrapped around my arm.

"Ask nicely," he said.

His breath touched my cheek. Hot. Uneven. He was bleeding through his shirt, and the sharp copper smell filled the space between us.

I looked down at his hand around my wrist.

"You're squeezing too hard."

His fingers loosened by half an inch.