That’s when the air shifts. Even with all the incense he’s burned, even with the vacuumed floors, the prepped meals, the polished surfaces, this place still feels like a suffocation zone. A space so foul that someone like Sabine should never have to breathe it in.
And yet she does.
Her dress is blue.
The kind that borders on silver. Not bright. Not flashy. Not something chosen to impress.
No. He picked the kind that makes her look paler than she is. Meek. Fragile.
A little pure.
A little wronged.
A little unreal.
Like a ghost.
Like the whisper of a girl who doesn’t belong in this world.
I know I’ll never forget this moment, how he made her look. No matter what happens. Whether I kill him, he kills me, or both. This image will follow me into the afterlife.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Her makeup is barely there. But her eyes—
Her eyes search the room like she’s already walked through hell to get here.
And the second she sees me, her gaze locks in.
I swear, if I weren’t already bleeding, I would start now.
Her face shatters. The expression breaks so violently it rips through my chest.
She takes one step forward, breath catching.
“Cassian,” she whispers. Tears well in her eyes. Her hands lift halfway, then stop, like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to reach for me.
The man steps in beside her, hovering like a priest beside a bride he plans to bury. His hand hovers near the small of her back. When he touches her, she flinches. But she doesn’t look away. She looks at me, like she could endure anything, if it means knowing I’m okay.
I’m not okay.
Not even close.
But for her, I lift my chin, meet her eyes, and straighten my spine as much as my bindings let me.
“It’s okay, Sabie,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “It’s all going to be okay.”
I want to scream at her to run. To rip off the heels, the dress, the whole twisted illusion. To shove this man back up the stairs and set the house on fire on her way out.
But I don’t.
She’s already here. Fighting back now would only set him off. And we need time. Just a little more.
“Hey,” she says, sniffing. “That’s my line.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, just barely.
“Come on,” the man says, gesturing to the table. His voice turns syrupy. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting. He’s been so patient.”
Sabine hesitates a second too long. He notices. I know he does, because his hand presses against the small of her back, firmer this time. Still, she moves. She forces herself forward with a shaky breath. She walks to the table, heels clicking, dress swaying, grief stitched into every line of her body, and sits down.
