Maeve's POV.
The heavy oak doors of the mansion didn't just close behind us; they felt like they were sealing a tomb. The warmth of the foyer, usually so welcoming, now felt stifling and fake. Aaron didn't let go of my hand as we walked. His grip was almost painful, like he was afraid I’d evaporate into thin air if he loosened his fingers for even a second. His palm was hot, slightly damp with sweat and the grime from the farm, and I could feel the tremor in his muscles.
"To the situation room," Aaron commanded. His voice bounced off the high, white ceilings, sounding jagged and raw.
We moved past the grand staircase where Elena Ravenswood stood like a statue made of grief and stone. She didn't say a word as we passed, but her eyes trailed over my muddy clothes and the blood on my slee
