The estate’s west wing was quieter than usual, its halls dim except for the pools of warm light spilling from wall sconces. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and brewed tea, Amara had insisted the house staff keep a kettle ready through the night. Luke lay in a private recovery room, the steady beep of monitors punctuating the silence. His chest was bandaged beneath a fresh cotton shirt, and an IV snaked from his arm to a hanging bag of fluids.
Lila sat in the chair at his bedside, elbows on her knees, hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles had turned white. Her hair was still pulled back from the mission, streaked with dried sweat and grime. She hadn’t changed out of her tactical jacket, its sleeves were stiff with Luke’s blood.
Amara entered quietly, balancing a tray with two s
