I flinch when I hear footsteps echoing behind me — steady and deliberate.
I don’t even bother to turn.
✧ “Like the décor?”
Caim’s tone is soft, almost innocent.
✧ “It’s kind of gothic,” I answer.
“But I guess it fits a prince of Hell, doesn’t it?”
✧ “Freya talks too much,” he says, and the faint amusement in his voice catches me off guard.
“And now?” I ask, exhausted, sinking onto the cold floor.
✧ I try to catch my breath.
He doesn’t answer right away.
✧ He just starts walking toward me.
The sound of his leather boots on the stone floor is slow, measured.
✧ Each step deliberate.
When he finally stops in front of me, the tips of his boots nearly touch my skin.
✧ I lift my face — and his scent reaches me first: a faint metallic trace mingling with the still air.
Caim tilts h
