The water was hot—almost scalding—but I needed it to be. I let it beat down on my shoulders, eyes closed, hands pressed flat against the cold marble tiles. The silence in the bathroom wasn’t comforting. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that reminded you how alone you really were.
No knocks. No footsteps. No sounds outside the fogged-up glass.
Just the low hum of pipes and the soft splatter of water on tile.
I scrubbed slower than I should’ve. My skin was already red, my fingers pruned. But I didn’t want to leave the shower. Not yet. Out there was reality. Out there was tension and pressure, and Madam Kensington was breathing down my neck about the brothers. Dan, broken and healing. Vincent, unreadable.
And me? Somewhere in between.
I tilted my head back under the stream, letting it
