Torin Pov
It was the first time in five years I had laid in a bed next to my son.
I should have felt victorious. I had used the boy’s fear to corner Harlow. I had outmaneuvered her, stripped away her escape route, and forced her exactly where I wanted her—in my bed, surrounded by my walls, guarded by my men.
But it felt like a bitter victory.
On the opposite side of the mattress, she was lying as close to the edge as physically possible without falling onto the floor. Her back was turned to me. Her spine was completely rigid, her body radiating cold, impenetrable hatred.
I could tell she wasn't asleep because I heard the elevated, rapid thud of her heartbeat and the shallow, controlled way she was breathing.
I shifted on the mattress, turning my head to look at her realizing that I
