CHAPTER 47: THE QUESTION MY MOTHER REFUSED
Point of View: Lorain Hart
The morning sun didn't bring warmth; it bled through the dense grey fog hanging over the South Side, casting a cold, institutional glare across the cracked asphalt of my parents' street.
Saviour’s car didn't belong here. His sleek, pitch-black performance coupe sat idling beside a rusted dumpster, its low, mechanical hum vibrating through the floorboards. He kept one hand firmly on the leather steering wheel, his dark eyes scanning the quiet, working-class neighborhood with the hyper-vigilant intensity of a man expecting a sniper.
"I can come inside with you," Saviour rasped, his voice rough from lack of sleep and the raw, explicit heat we had shared just hours before in his penthouse. He turned to look at me, his ha
