The morning air in my chamber felt stagnant, a heavy shroud that smelled of old wood and the metallic tang of my own fear. I paced the length of the rug until the soles of my feet burned, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge of the mahogany desk. The wood groaned under the pressure, a mirror to the silent scream caught in my throat.
Last night, Reagan’s coldness had been a physical blow, but this morning, it had curdled into something far more sinister.
Don’t jump to conclusions, I whispered to the empty room, my voice a pathetic tremor.
He pulled you from the wreckage. He taught you how to hold a blade. He looked at you like… like you were the only light in this godforsaken place.
But as I clung to the memory of his hand on mine, a jagged, persistent voice hissed from the back of
