The night pressed against the mansion like a held breath, thick with a silence that didn’t feel natural. Elena felt it long before she saw anything, an itch between her shoulder blades, a whisper in her bones telling her she wasn’t just walking through an empty hallway. She paused, fingers tightening around the banister as she descended the stairs, her pulse quickening with every step.
Damian and Michael were somewhere in the east wing, dealing with the latest information Ivan delivered about the traitor woven into their circle. Elena had tried to convince them she could help, that she wasn’t as fragile as they insisted, but they had both shut her down without hesitation, insisting she stay out of sight for her own safety.
She hated hiding. She hated waiting even more.
The mansion light
