Gino hadn’t moved in hours.
He sat near the window, bathed in cold moonlight, his expression unreadable. His golden eyes reflected the dim glow, but there was no warmth in them—just emptiness.
The hunger hadn’t left.
It lingered like a whisper, a constant gnawing inside him, curling in his gut, creeping into his thoughts.
His hands twitched against his thighs, fingers flexing.
The sound of Makayla shifting behind him made him tense.
She hadn’t left his side.
Neither had Mikhail.
But Gino could feel the distance between them.
Not physical.
Something else.
Something he couldn’t fix.
Makayla’s voice was quiet. Careful.
“Dad?”
Gino exhaled slowly. He hadn’t spoken in a while, hadn’t trusted himself to. His throat felt dry, but he knew that wasn’t the problem.
He was still trying
