L BURG

me home with

felt empty, a cavern of silence where laughter and music used to be. The lingering scent of Jorden

warmth that used to emanate from it. Garrick, always the practical one, had a habit of rising early to

I tried to place it in the grate, but my hand slipped. The edge of

oat. My usual reaction: immediate outrage, followed by a pout, knowing

like a physical blow. There was no one here to soothe me, no one to care if I got a scratch, no

go. I couldn' t stay here, not in this mausoleum of broken promises. I bol

ess against the cold. I stumbled, my expensive shoes scraping on the unforgiving pavement. My knees, already bruised from my earlier fall, protested wi

xhaustion. Finally, I found myself in front of a familiar brownstone, its win

r creak

onnor. It w

ened in a flicker of surprise when he saw me. His gaze dropped to my bloodied knees, then to my fran

e low, a hint of caution in i

e he snubbed my art, and Garrick, with that cool, pragmatic efficiency of his, had smoothed everything over, written a check, and somehow made me feel like I was the victim. He' d scold me, his voice fir

darted past him, into the warm, inviting

d the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. He saw my de

voice slightly, calling into the quiet house, "Connor! Your little pet hasn't quite learned to cu

he biting wind that whipped around my

ooms, his dark hair tousled, his shirt untucked. His

the collar of his shirt, was a fresh bite mark.

. The very air fel

ng their depths before he smoothed it away. He looked at me, really look

ted in my bones now se