Back at the mansion, the air felt heavier than usual, tension crackling like static electricity in the corridors. Violet hesitated briefly outside Cain's quarters, her grip on the vial tightening. The medicine, crimson and viscous, was heavier in her hand than it should have been—both physically and metaphorically. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, only for her steps to falter under the weight of Cain's gaze.
The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tightly shut. Cain sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his broad shoulders tense. His golden-brown eyes burned with an intensity that made Violet's stomach twist. The soft glow of a nearby lamp highlighted the taut muscles of his chest, but what drew her attention more was the raw pain etched into his expression.
"You're late," he said, his voice low, each syllable slicing through the stillness of the room.
