The library is a *wreck*.
Books *litter* the floor, their pages *torn*, their spines *broken*. The scent of *blood* and *rage* and *paper* is *thick* in the air, *cloying*, *intoxicating*. The fire *crackles* in the hearth, casting *shadows* that *dance* like *demons* on the walls.
Daniel *stands* in the doorway, his dark eyes *wide*, his voice a *whisper*. *"Lena…?"* His voice is *soft*, *concerned*, but there’s a *flicker* of *disgust* in his gaze as he *takes* in the scene—the *blood*, the *broken* furniture, the *tension* *coiling* between us like a *live wire*.
*Fuck.*
I *hate* that he *sees* this.
I *hate* that he *judges* this.
I *love* that it’s *none* of his *f*****g* business.
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Knox *steps* forward, his dark eyes *black* with rage, his voice a growl. *"Get the *f**k* o
