DEVON
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed seven times.
Precise.
I liked precision. It was the only thing I could control in a world that insisted on resetting itself every time I was killed by the woman I loved.
I stood by the head of the mahogany dining table, pouring a glass of dark red Cabernet. The liquid swirled against the crystal, blood-red and rich. I didn't drink immediately. I just watched the double doors at the far end of the room.
They opened.
The air in the room shifted instantly. It wasn't just a change in pressure; it was a shift in gravity.
Irene stood in the doorway.
I had ordered the dress myself, a calculated move. It was black, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline that stopped dangerously low, exposing the creamy skin of her chest. The fabric clung to her curves like a second skin, spilling down to the floor in a pool of midnight silk. Against the black, her red hair was a violent explosion of color, cascading over her shoulders like fire.
