The house smelled like blood. Like smoke and copper and sweat, thick enough that it coated Amelia’s tongue every time she tried to swallow.
The storm outside had died, but the storm inside hadn’t. Not even close.
She could hear them in the next room—Dominic and Lucian—voices low and sharp, cutting through the walls like knives. Every word dripped with poison. Every pause felt like the space right before a gunshot.
Her body ached. The bandage at her side was stained through again, sticky and hot. She knew she should call out, get their attention before the fever clawing up her spine dragged her under.
But she didn’t.
Because she knew:
If she called for them right now, one of them might not come back.
Dominic’s voice, cold and lethal:
“You should’ve let him kill you. Would’ve saved m
