EMMA
The dust of the confrontation hadn't even settled. The glass cathedral still stood—Damien’s "mineral rights" had been a bluff, a desperate psychological play that Gabriel’s lawyers had shredded via a satellite call within minutes—but the air inside was ruined. The smell of cold sweat and gunpowder had replaced the scent of cedar and expensive candles.
We were back at the main estate, tucked into the library. It was a room that felt like a fortress, lined with leather-bound books that smelled of centuries. A fire roared in the hearth, its orange light dancing over the sharp planes of Gabriel’s face. He had shed his suit jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark, swirling ink of a tattoo I hadn't seen before—a wolf’s head intertwined with ancient thorns.
"D
