Serenya's PoV
I wake to a room that smells like arguments and promises. The curtains are half-drawn, light slanting through the dust, catching the faint trace of Darian’s cologne that still hangs in the air. My sheets are tangled, pillow creased where he sat last night—calculating, steady, refusing to let me self-destruct.
My body feels like it’s been rung out. Every nerve spent from the planning, the rules, the fight to prove I can still stand on my own. The ache is more than exhaustion; it’s the slow return to the skin of someone who volunteered to walk straight into a predator’s den.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling until the words resurface: You are not a mission I let die.
They don’t sound like comfort now. They sound like a vow I could make him break.
The clock blink
