In the wake of the storm, we didn’t find peace; we found a truth more dangerous than any lie.
The penthouse was silent, a stark contrast to the blaring alarms and the deafening gunshot that had torn through the night. The air still tasted of cordite and cold, stark fear. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, staring at the city lights that glittered like a bed of indifferent stars. I was wearing one of Lysander’s shirts, a soft, dark cotton that swallowed my frame and smelled faintly of his cedar and bergamot cologne. It was the only thing that felt remotely safe.
He moved behind the bar, the quiet clink of crystal the only sound as he poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy tumbler. His movements were efficient, controlled, but I saw the
