The sunlight filtered lazily through the tall windows, casting long stripes across the polished wood of the dining table, illuminating a few blood spots splattered here and there.
Severine's body was present, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. Everything felt distant to her, unreal even—like a pleasant dream that was about to shatter.
Killian watched her from the chaise lounge. His eyes followed her every movement with a hollow sort of longing.
His hand was wrapped in a bandage, and Dr. Edmund had left after scolding him for being an idiot, which he hardly registered.
He was a man who lived by logic and keen observation, yet he couldn't parse the shift in her.
It's the injury, it must be, he thought, his jaw tightening.
The thought that something was troubling her—and he had no clue—didn't sit well with him, especially after knowing that someone had forced a kiss on her.
Fuck, I want to kill someone...
