The mansion was eerily quiet that night. The faint ticking of the antique hallway clock seemed louder than usual as Amara paced near her bedroom window. She had been waiting for Damien to return, her chest tight with worry since he and Luke left earlier. The evening wind rattled the curtains, carrying the scent of wet earth from the gardens outside.
The door creaked open. Damien stood framed in the doorway, his shoulders broad and his face shadowed. The first thing Amara noticed was the dark stains across his shirt and hands—blood. Her heart stopped.
“Damien!” she gasped, crossing the room in two quick steps. Her hands hovered over him, afraid to touch and hurt him. “You’re bleeding!”
He shook his head slightly, his voice low and heavy. “Not all of it is mine.”
Amara’s breath caught. “
