I crept silently along the corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The words I had overheard haunted my every step: sacrifice… Arabella… Mt. Hayp. Every instinct screamed at me to flee, yet a foolish, stubborn part of me urged me to confront him. I had to know. I had to understand why the man I had begun to trust—the man I had started to care for—could be involved in something so monstrous.
As I turned the corner, I froze. From the shadows of the study doorway, I saw him. Reagan. His back was toward me, his fingers brushing over the stack of papers the priests had left behind. The morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows caught his sharp profile, making him look statuesque and untouchable. But my breath caught in my throat not from admiration, but from
