The arrival back to London was draped in a bitter-sweet dread. It was late evening when the wheels touched the tarmac, the air outside the cabin already smelling of the crisp, biting turn of the season. It was the early sign of autumn—a change in the wind that felt like a warning. For the last few hours, I had been living through the motions, a blur of flickering airport gates, humming terminals, and the rushing lights of the city as the car raced toward St. Mary’s Hospital.
I sat in the backseat, my fingers interlaced tightly with Eric’s. His skin was clammy, his pulse thrumming a frantic, irregular rhythm against my palm. I understood his silence. I understood the war raging behind his eyes. Despite everything Elijah Kingston had done—his cold compliance in Eric’s mistreatment, the way
