The morning air was crisp, but the sun offered no warmth to Aria as she knelt by the large wooden washbasin behind the lodge.
Her knuckles were raw and red from the lye soap, and her back ached from the constant scrubbing.
For two days, she had been a ghost in this house, moving through the halls while the scent of Liam lingered in every corner—a constant, painful reminder of what she had lost.
She hadn't seen him since she moved in. She had heard him, though.
She had heard the low rumble of his voice through the thin walls at night, followed by Elena’s high, theatrical moans.
It was a torture that left her hollow, her heart feeling like a bruised fruit that had been stepped on.
She was currently wringing out one of Liam’s heavy tunics, the fabric rough against her palms, when the
