Dawn crept through the narrow stained-glass window of Cattleya’s room like a reluctant witness.
She stood motionless in the center of the floor, still wearing her white nightgown, arms wrapped around herself as if she could physically hold together the fracture that had formed inside her chest. Her lips still tingled from Rusty’s kiss. Her skin still remembered the cool pressure of his hand at the nape of her neck, the way his body had felt pressed against hers—solid, ancient, and dangerously alive.
The memory refused to be catalogued.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Cattleya startled, then composed herself with clinical efficiency. “Come in.”
Her father entered, black robes sweeping the stone floor. Archpriest Dominic Vermont’s presence filled the small room instantly, as it always
