Elle POV
The sitting room is quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar.
Not tense.
Not watchful.
Just… still.
The fire crackles softly, and the warmth seeps into my bones little by little, easing aches I’ve learned to ignore. Blake sits across from me, his coffee untouched now, his attention entirely on me—not pressing, not demanding. Waiting.
It’s strange how much harder that is than interrogation ever was.
“You asked about my past,” I say quietly, fingers tightening around my mug. “About people who might know who I am. Or what I am.”
He nods once. “Only if you’re ready.”
I stare into the dark liquid for a long moment before lifting my gaze.
“I don’t really have a past the way most people do,” I admit. “Not one with roots, anyway.”
His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt
