The villa was too quiet.
Elira stood in the hallway, heart pounding, hand pressed protectively over her stomach. She’d woken from a dream of blood and wind and white dresses, and now—now something wasn’t right. The silence had weight to it. Like it was waiting to break.
A creak echoed from downstairs.
She moved quietly, barefoot, wearing only Damien’s oversized shirt. He wasn’t beside her when she woke, and that alone chilled her more than the air.
Downstairs, the fire still crackled in the hearth. But there was no Damien. Only a note on the kitchen counter, scrawled in his familiar hand:
“Back in an hour. Don’t open the door. D.”
She didn’t have time to frown before a knock rattled the front of the house.
Not loud. Not forceful. Just three quiet taps.
She froze.
Her first thought
