The cold bit into Lucien's skin, but he barely felt it.
Lucien stood at the edge of the tree line, his back to the cabin, his breath curling in soft plumes against the cold. The air was sharp, brittle. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy behind his ribs, but he didn't move.
He wasn't watching the forest.
He should have been.
His gaze flickered toward the cabin, toward the dim glow of the fire leaking through the cracks in the wood. He could still feel her inside, a faint pulse against his ribs, a distant thrum in the bond—like something coiled tight, something pressed too deep to unravel.
She hadn't moved in a while.
Lucien swallowed, shifting his stance. His fingers flexed at his sides, twitching with the instinct to do something. But what? Go inside? Face her? As if words would fix this, as if anything could make up for what he had done.
The way she looked at me.
