The fire had burned through the night, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins and ashes. By dawn, the cabin was gone, consumed completely, leaving only blackened earth and twisted beams that jutted from the ground like charred bones.
Elena hadn’t closed her eyes once. She had sat by Michael’s side in the shadows of the forest, pressing strips of torn fabric against his wounds, praying his shallow breaths would not falter. His face was pale, his body feverish, but he lived.
Each rise and fall of his chest gave her fragile hope, a hope she clung to desperately because it was the only thing keeping her from breaking.
But every time the wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of smoke and burnt wood, she heard Damian’s voice echo in her ears. His last scream. His last cry of her name. The mem
