From ceiling to floor, clocks of different shapes and sizes scatter the walls. I move toward one and stare past the glass. Then I look at the one beside it. They’re all displaying different times. The pendulums swing back and forth, the rhythmic sound reverberating through the room, growing louder as the walls seem to close in.

“What is this room, Alex?”

I know he hears me, because he’s standing right behind me. I can feel heat rolling off his body, the vibration of his skin humming so near mine. His breaths come hard and ragged, and I wonder how painful that climb up the stairs was for him. Though right now, looking around at the very horrifying inside of his mind, I don’t give a damn.

“Get out,” he orders. A veiled desperation edges his low voice.

Other than the many clock faces scattering the room, I notice a splinter of light coming from the opposite wall. The entryway door has been boarded up.

I grip the keys in my palm.

Whatever the inside of this cabin means to him, it’s dark and twisted, and he has it sealed tight. He doesn’t want anyone to see, to enter. And no one can leave.

I’m yanked by my arm and towed back into the stairwell. Alex slams the door shut, his back to me, hands planted against the door. I should do exactly as he said. I should run down those stairs and get as far away from him as I can. He’s more unstable in this moment than I’ve ever seen him. I should leave—but his volatile state is a gravitational pull anchoring me here.

He lets his hands fall away from the door and, without any words, turns slowly to face me. Eyebrows drawn together, he drags his gaze over me. My white Oxford is open in front. I make no move to cover myself.

With cautious movements, Alex steps closer and takes his keys from my grasp. I forgot I was holding them. He slips the keyring into his pocket, then his hand goes to my waist, startling me.

Eyes cast downward, he flattens the back of his hand along my stomach. I can’t help it; I flinch at the tender feel, my belly tensing instinctively.

He traces his knuckles upward, his touch gentle and examining, as if he’s learning the curves of my body. My breath stills in my lungs as he reaches the contour between my breasts. His fingertips rove over the delicate arch of one breast, allowing him to trace the shape, and I’m studying his features, expressions, the way he looks pained, and trying to understand what’s causing that pain.

Alex abruptly stops. As he reaches the divot of my breastbone, he secures the top button of the shirt. He fastens it, then works his way down gradually to close the shirt.