The shadows in the master suite weren't static. They seemed to breathe, undulating against the silk-flocked wallpaper as the dying embers in the hearth let out the occasional, sharp pop. It was a heavy atmosphere, not the kind of silence that precedes a storm, but the thick, pressurized hush that follows a total collapse.
Darien sat on the edge of the mattress, his silhouette a jagged, dark outline against the amber glow of the bedside lamp. He was a man made of obsidian and regrets. He'd showered, washed the literal blood of his enemies down the drain, and dressed in a fresh linen shirt, but he still felt... stained. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the purple bloom of the bruise on Amara's cheek. It was a brand. A permanent record of his failure to be the shield he claimed to be.
