The air thickened as if the house itself inhaled. The shadows drew in close, listening. Waiting.
Rafe moved first. He stepped in front of Vivienne, blade drawn low, the steel reflecting nothing—not light, not shadow, not even his own hand. Clara pushed herself upright, her lips pressed tight against pain. The blood on her blouse had stopped spreading.
Because it had started moving.
Vivienne stared. The stain wasn't a stain anymore—it was shifting, curling toward the mark on her own collarbone. Like it recognized its source. Like it hungered for return.
“We have to move,” Rafe said sharply. “Now.”
But Vivienne was rooted to the spot. “What was that voice?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Why did it sound like me?”
Rafe didn’t answer.
Clara did.
“Because it is you.”
Vivienne tur
