The rose still lingered in Elena’s trembling hand, its blackened petals staining her skin. She wanted to throw it away, to cast it into the dirt and crush it beneath her heel, but she couldn’t. It felt like Damian’s fingers were still on it, on her, and letting go would mean admitting he had already touched her again. It was as if the flower carried the echo of his voice, the shadow of his presence, the heat of his breath whispering across her skin the way it had once done in the dark secrets of their shared nights. The memories clawed up her spine, unwelcome, unbidden.
Michael’s voice pulled her back. “Drop it, Elena. It’s poison.”
She looked at him, startled, almost guilty. His eyes weren’t on the flower, they were on her, sharp and worried, seeing too much. Slowly, she released the ro
