The roses were suddenly there, thrust into her space like a bloody offering, Their scent was cloying, a heavy, suffocating sweetness that seemed to coat the back of her throat. Almost on instinct, her fingers curled around the stems.
"You're back, then."
The voice was familiar, but it didn't belong to the man she had been mourning for five days. It was Mathias, yet the cadence was off—the words hung in the air with a predatory stillness that felt fundamentally wrong.
Olivia surged to her feet, her chair screeching against the floorboards like a panicked animal. She spun to face him, the roses trembling in her white-knuckled grip.
"I'm back," he whispered. A small, rehearsed smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he opened his arms wide, inviting her into the dark. "Won't you hug me? Come here, dearest."
