The silence between them was louder than the rain tapping against the windows of the safe house. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting soft shadows that danced across the wooden floor. Elena stood by the edge of the bed, watching Damian with a mix of concern and confusion. He sat on the couch, his injured hand wrapped in fresh gauze, his shirt half open, stained with blood and ash.
She had just finished tending to him, but something deeper still needed healing.
“I’m sorry,” Damian said finally, voice low and rough, like gravel being crushed underfoot.
Elena tilted her head slightly, stepping closer. “For what?”
“For dragging you into this,” he replied without meeting her eyes. “For not being able to protect you like I promised.”
“You did protect me,” she said. “You got me out
