The night spoke in its own quiet, cryptic language. Outside, the shadows of the trees stirred faintly against the windowpane, as if they knew something inside had shifted. The world had fallen silent, and only the estate's security system kept watch in every corner—monitoring movement, sounds, routines it had memorized.
But that night, routine had unraveled. The control Lucian Thornewell had so meticulously constructed around himself shattered—right there, at the edge of a single bed.
He hadn’t spoken for a while. Andromeda had fallen asleep beside him, the echoes of her nightmare slowly ebbing from her body. Her breathing was soft, even. Her face more peaceful than he’d ever seen it—as if, for once, the darkness she feared hadn’t found her.
Lucian wasn’t sleeping. His back rested again
