The night stretched endlessly, every shadow carrying the threat of his return. Elena’s body was still trembling as Michael guided her deeper into the woods, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. The air smelled of damp earth and iron, Damian’s scent seemed to cling to it, as if he’d branded the forest itself with his presence.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was too fragile, too dangerous to break.
But it didn’t last long.
A low whistle pierced the night.
Elena froze, her breath catching. The sound was haunting, playful, one she recognized instantly. Damian’s whistle. A melody he used to hum in the castle when pacing outside her chamber door. A melody that had once lulled her into false safety.
Now it clawed at her insides like a nightmare reborn.
Michael’s grip tightened
