The morning light spilled in golden and soft, but Elira felt anything but calm.
She sat at the edge of her bed, robe clutched around her, hair tumbling down her back, staring at the unopened text from Damien.
“One last chance. Meet me at the garden.”
“Alone.”
She didn’t know what terrified her more—the idea of seeing him again or the part of her that wanted to.
Behind her, the bedroom door opened. Soren entered quietly, fully dressed in a steel-gray shirt and dark trousers, his presence as stilling as a shadow over water.
“You’re going,” he said before she could speak.
“I haven’t decided.”
“You have,” he replied gently. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
She turned. “Are you angry?”
“No.” He crossed to her, knelt before her like he had so many nights when she cried herself silent
