Dylan’s p.o.v.
Sitting in my office, I couldn’t breathe as the walls of my packhouse pressed in, I could still smell the Ravine—the stench of blood, damp earth, the taste of death, and beneath it all, was Chloe.
Her scent clung to my skin like a ghost, haunting me, refusing to fade no matter how many times I tried to scrub it away. No matter how much I tried to tell myself she was nothing to me.
The image of her, broken and lifeless body in my arms, was a wound that refused to close. It replayed over and over in my mind, each time worse than the last. My grip tightened around her fragile body, her blood soaking through my fingers, the flicker of pain in her eyes before they fluttered shut.
Meanwhile, I shoved the memory away, forcing myself to focus on the flickering flames in the fire
