The manor was silent, save for the sound of Gino’s labored breathing.
The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a heavy stillness in the air, as if the house itself was catching its breath after the chaos that had just unfolded. The scent of blood lingered—Draven’s, Vivienne’s, and most of all, Gino’s.
Makayla wrinkled her nose. She could ignore the smell of most human blood. But her father’s? That was different. It made something uncomfortable coil in her stomach.
“Sit down before you fall down,” she muttered, watching Gino sway slightly on his feet.
“I’m fine,” Gino said through gritted teeth.
Celine shot him a sharp look, one that brokered no argument. “You’re not.”
He sighed but let her guide him toward a nearby chair. His breathing was slow and controlled, but Makayla didn’t
