The fire in the hearth burned low, its orange glow flickering weakly across the cabin walls. Shadows stretched across the wooden floor, restless and jagged, mirroring the tension that had settled thick in the air.
Lucien leaned against the mantel, his fingers gripping its edge as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His silver eyes, darker than usual, flicked toward the flames, their usual gleam dulled by the hunger he was fighting to suppress. His grip tightened, the faint tremor in his hands betraying his control.
Behind him, the sharp scrape of steel on stone echoed in the silence. Taryn sat at the table, her blade steady in one hand, the whetstone moving with precise, deliberate strokes. She didn't look at him, but the tension rolling off him was impossible to ignore. She could feel it through the bond, a low hum pressing faintly at the edges of her mind.
