GABRIEL
The penthouse felt like it was hemorrhaging light. Outside, the London sky was a bruised purple, the kind of dusk that felt less like an ending and more like a threat. I stood by the door of the bedroom, my duffel bag heavy against my shoulder, watching Emma. She was standing by the window, the oxblood silk of her gown reflecting in the glass like a pool of drying blood.
Through the Silver Thread, I could feel the tectonic plates of her heart shifting. She was processing the impossible: the video of my violence, the betrayal of the city she’d built, and the cold, hard fact that my world was currently on fire.
"Clara’s jet is fueled at Farnborough," I said, my voice sounding like it was being dragged through gravel. "The High Council has given me twelve hours to present myself a
