The line between revenge and redemption was a thread, and we were crossing it in the dark.
He didn’t carry me to his bedroom like a conquering hero or a storybook prince. He led me there, his fingers laced tightly with mine, a silent, palpable current arcing between our palms that felt like the only real thing in the world. The walk from the living area, with its panoramic view of the wounded, glittering city, felt both endless and instantaneous. The sterile, modern hallway seemed to narrow, its focus sharpening to a single point: the dark, heavy door at its end.
Lysander pushed it open, and I stepped into his inner sanctum.
He released my hand, and the loss of contact was a small, sharp shock. He stood before me, the vulnerability he’d shown by the window now banked behind a smoldering
