Morning light slipped through the heavy curtains, spreading warm streaks across the room. It glowed on the polished floors, skimmed past tall bookshelves, and touched the edges of furniture too perfect to be touched. The air carried the scent of cedar and leather, with something colder beneath it—like power held too tightly.
Rafael Vexley lay across his bed, sheets twisted around him. His dark, wavy hair was a mess, but his eyes were wide open, locked on the ceiling above him like it owed him something. Last night's anger hadn't left. It just curled tighter inside him, hot and sharp, waiting for a reason to explode.
Eliana hadn't come back.
She was supposed to. He told her to. And yet, she didn't. That disobedience, that simple refusal, burned more than it should have.
