Freya stood frozen, her breath locked in her chest as her eyes remained fixed on Lucien Wright. She searched his face—every flicker of his gaze, every minute tightening of his jaw—for some hint that this was nothing more than a twisted jest.
But the silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating, and he merely stared back. Unmoving. Inscrutable.
"Take me home, Ion," she whispered, the words trembling on her lips. Her fingers twisted into Orion’s sleeve, gripping him like the last solid thing in a world tilting beneath her feet.
"Yes." Orion’s voice was a dark promise as he pulled her against him, his arm an unyielding bar across her waist. They turned to leave—
Then, like a blade through the quiet, his voice stopped her.
"Freya..."
She went rigid—not at the command
