Amara’s hand still trembled as she gripped on the chair, her breath shallow, her chest tight. The scent of gunpowder still lingers in the air, sharp and bitter, mixing with the metallic tinge of blood. Her eyes were fixed on the lifeless body sprawled across the marble floor, a small crimson pool slowly spreading beneath it. Damien stood motionless, the gun still in his hand, jaw clenched, his usual calm now hardened into something darker.
She hadn’t meant to be there. She was only supposed to return a book Sera had borrowed from the library downstairs. She’d heard voices—raised, angry, unfamiliar—and then the sound of a gunshot that paralyzed her. The book had slipped from her hand, the crash of shattered glass echoing like a scream through the room.
Damien turned slowly, his expression
