The grey mist swirled lazily around Ashton’s polished boots, parting for his stride as if the very air itself was magnetized to his physical presence. He moved through the suffocating graveyard with a quiet, dangerous entitlement that made the stagnant air feel thin.
"You shouldn't have come down here, Ivy," he said. His voice was a low-frequency hum that vibrated directly in my chest—a dark melody that tasted of expensive wine and old, broken promises. As he stepped across the circle of bone-white petals into my immediate space, his movements were perfectly precise, completely deliberate. He wasn't just standing near me; he was actively weaving an invisible tapestry with his words, his posture entirely open and inviting, expertly designed to lower every single defensive wall I had left.
