Being Alistair's human blood bank meant many things, but foremost among them was confinement.
Each morning, when the pale light crept through the tall arched windows and the bells of the academy tolled the first hour, Alistair would depart without ceremony.
His coat would be buttoned to the throat, gloves immaculate, expression carved into its usual mask of cold refinement.
He would not look back as he left them behind, as though the rooms he assigned to Selene and Caroline were nothing more than a locked cabinet—useful, orderly, and silent.
Once the door shut, the silence would stretch.
It was not the peaceful sort of silence either. It pressed against Selene's ears, crawled beneath her skin, and settled heavily in her chest.
The chambers were luxurious in a way only immortals could manage—dark wood panels carved with symbols she could not read, velvet drapes heavy enough to block out the world, a bed far too large for a single person.
