|Gryphon's POV|
The thing about fury is—it's quiet.
People think it's loud, that it shouts and throws and slams things. But the real kind, the kind that tightens like a noose around your ribs, that kind slips in like a tide—slow, soundless, inevitable.
Each step I take toward their table rings like a metronome counting down to detonation.
I see the flicker in Serena's eyes as I approach—widening just slightly, her lips parting the way they did the night she first said my name like it hurt. And that bastard across from her—Nikolai f*****g Sokolov—relaxes in his chair like he belongs there. Like he hasn't spent the last few years a ghost in the rearview mirror of her life.
I don't even remember standing. One moment I was drinking to forget her lips, the next I was walking straight towar
