VIVIANNE ST. CLAIR’S POV
The room was quiet. Still. The kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s holding its breath. The fire in the corner had burned low, more shadows than light now, and the wind outside was brushing against the windows like it was looking for a way in.
I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand curled around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. The other rested on the empty space beside me.
His side.
I hadn’t touched it in years.
Lucas.
God, his name still did something to me. Still made my chest tighten like it did the first time I realized I loved him — really loved him. Not the easy kind. The kind that changes how you breathe.
We met too young. Or maybe just early enough. He was wild, cocky, always smelled like smoke and something sharp, like the woods
