The next two weeks did not move forward in any natural way; they dragged like iron chains. Time scraped against him, slowing, grinding, pulling at him with a weight he wasn't built to carry. Zane lived through each day as if the world had turned into coarse sandpaper, stripping him layer by layer until his patience, his pride, and whatever composure he had left were shaved down to bone. He woke each morning with the same splitting headache, the same hollow ache in his chest, the same unfamiliar bed that smelled like nothing, because she had taken her scent with her when she walked out of his life.
