EMMA
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
My body lies still in the narrow guest room Gabriel insisted on—closer to the main house this time, guarded, warded, watched—but my mind keeps pacing long after the lights are out. Every time I close my eyes, I see Lucien’s smile, sharp and knowing. Every time I breathe in, I swear I smell pine and blood again.
The bond is quieter tonight.
Not gone. Never gone. But muted, like someone pressed a hand over a ringing bell.
Which makes it worse.
Because silence leaves space for thoughts.
By dawn, I give up pretending. I sit up, feet hitting the cold floor, and press my palms to my face. My hands are shaking—not from fear exactly, but from something coiled tight beneath my ribs. Readiness. Awareness. The sense that the ground under my life has cracked, an
