The video played on loop.
A gloved hand turned the key in my mother’s infirmary door. Slow. Deliberate. The camera angle was from inside the wall, close enough to catch the faint tremor in the fingers as the lock clicked open.
I stood frozen in the middle of the suite, phone screen glowing in my hand, the bond between Damien and me screaming like a live wire. My mother was supposed to be safe. I had seen her carried into that room under guard. Lyra had been with her. Now a stranger’s hand was turning the lock like it belonged to them.
Damien’s arm came around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His body was rigid, the bond flooding me with his rage and the sharp edge of his fear. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The connection between us carried everything — his
