Scout’s POV
"You can enter," the sentinel said, his voice dropping to a low, tight rasp as he pulled the heavy oak door open.
He refused to look at me. His focus stayed glued to the stone floor, his jaw tight enough to crack. I pulled the silken edges of my robe closer together, but the thin material did nothing to block the sudden chill of the hallway. The fabric clung to my skin, a cheap shield against his silent judgment. I stepped past him, my bare feet sinking into the plush, dark carpet of the private lounge. The door clicked shut behind me with a sharp, final snap that echoed in my chest.
Everything in the room was suffocatingly perfect. Heavy leather chairs sat at precise right angles. Not a single throw pillow was out of place. It was a cold, calculated display of control, a ph
