I shouldn't feel this way.
I've just sent her a message—a warning. One that should've rattled her spine, curled her back into the shadows where she belongs. But instead, I'm the one pacing. My breath claws its way up my throat, too sharp, too fast. The silence in the manor thickens, and it's not just from the curtains drawn shut or the echo of my bare feet against marble.
It's dread.
She's too calm.
Too quiet.
And silence, with Lilith Dusk, is never peace.
I press my knuckles into the wall, breathing hard. The stone doesn't give. Neither does the ache in my chest. It's not fear—no, it's not that. It's fury in disguise. Rage stitched too tight to my skin.
"Stop pacing," comes that familiar, clipped voice. "You're starting to look like your father."
I freeze.
My aunt, Sienna Volkova, sits like a jagged throne in my parlor—spine straight, lips tight, wearing that velvet-black wrap she only dons when she's ready to bury someone politically.
