The room had fallen into a thick, almost sacred silence after Belle left. The warmth she carried with her still lingered in the air—soft, haunting, and disturbingly human. Ashton sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the bandage at his side darkening again with the slow seep of crimson. But he didn’t move to stop it. Pain was a language he understood—one that never lied.
The knock came again—sharp, steady.
“Come in,” he said, his tone clipped, already shedding the softness Belle had briefly uncovered.
Vincent stepped inside, his expression carved from stone, eyes grim and voice low. The sunlight caught the faint streaks of dust on his black coat as he closed the door behind him.
“sir,”
The word carried the weight of what he had to say. Ashton straightened slowly
