EMMALINE
The door clicks softly, signaling Alexander’s return. I don’t move, though—I stay exactly where I am, perched against the pillows, my expression smoothed into something unreadable. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that showing him too much gives him power. And I can’t afford to let him see the storm inside me.
His footsteps are measured, steady, the sound of a man who always knows exactly where he stands. He sets the small pouch of herbs on the table beside me, careful, precise, as if even that gesture should carry weight.
“Take them twice a day,” he says simply, his voice clipped, neutral, like we’re discussing weather patterns instead of the fire consuming me from the inside out.
I hum in acknowledgment, but I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll give myself away. Instead
