SERAPHINA’S POV
Even with all of us closing in and Kieran’s presence looming like a thundercloud, Thomas barely glanced at us.
He focused on Brett, who stood between him and the exit, shoulders squared, jaw tight, his expression carved out of something heavier than anger.
Brett's eyes searched Thomas’s face as if he was still looking for some crack in the truth, some fragment of misunderstanding he could seize and turn into an explanation that would hurt less than what he had just heard.
“Tell me it isn’t true,” Brett said. His voice was low, but it carried through the room with devastating clarity.
Thomas’s throat bobbed. His composure slipped—just enough for me to see panic flash beneath his restraint, raw and desperate, before he buried it under that mask.
“Brett,” he said carefully, “you don’t understand what this is.”
Brett’s mouth tightened. “Then explain it.”
Thomas gave a humorless, thin laugh that sounded wrong.
