The motel room on the edge of Nebraska felt suspended in time, a fragile bubble of safety far removed from the blood-soaked ruins of Stone Ridge. Soft lamplight cast long shadows across the plain walls and threadbare carpet. Seraphine lay curled against Darius’s bare chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Each beat anchored her, reminding her that the nightmare was behind them. Her ribs still throbbed with every breath, and her knee sent sharp protests when she shifted, but the pain had dulled into a distant ache. For the first time in nearly a decade, she allowed herself to simply exist without calculating escape routes or hidden threats.
Darius’s large hand traced slow, soothing circles along her spine, his calloused fingers gentle in a way that still surprised her. The rut
