The candlelight painted Jaxon in harsh gold as he stood by the window, hands braced on the sill like he could hold the night back with sheer force. Raven watched from the chaise in silence, the only sound the low hum of waves below the cliffside estate. Since they’d returned from Belgravia, since the raid, since Talia’s sobbed confession in the hallway, the air between them had turned thick with unspoken truths.
Raven wasn’t ready to speak yet. She needed him to.
He finally did. “She hated weakness,” Jaxon said, voice low and edged with something close to reverence, or venom. “Not in men. Not in sons. Not in herself.”
Raven straightened. “Your mother?”
A nod, but his eyes remained on the night. “She used to cut roses with a blade so sharp it could slice flesh without pain. She said not
