SERAPHINA’S POV
After that cryptic reply, Maxwell didn’t say anything else.
He just stood there, hands braced on the stone ledge, eyes fixed on the jagged horizon where the mountains tore open the sky.
A slight wind tugged at his jacket, ruffling his dark hair, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of amber.
Silence stretched long enough that guilt pricked the back of my throat.
I shouldn’t have asked.
I’d pushed too far, too fast. His story was intimate, vulnerable—something he hadn’t owed me at all.
I, of all people, knew what a sore spot the topic of relationships was.
“I’m sorry,” I started quietly. “You don’t have to—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off gently.
He straightened, exhaling a long breath that seemed to deflate something inside him.
