Sleep came hard. When it did, it wasn’t gentle.
One moment, Amelia lay in the packhouse bed, tangled in cold sheets and aching questions. The next, she was standing barefoot in a forest that smelled like smoke and blood, the moon hanging too low, the stars too bright. Time didn’t exist here. Neither did reason.
She turned—spun—searching.
And found him.
Lucien stepped out from the shadows like a curse reborn. Shirtless, barefoot, wearing only black pants that clung to every powerful line of him. The moon made his scars gleam silver. His eyes burned with a promise she didn’t understand—and didn’t want to.
“This isn’t real,” she said.
“It’s real enough,” Lucien replied, voice low and hungry. “I called you here.”
“You don’t have that kind of power.”
He smiled darkly. “Don’t I?”
Amelia
