The first shards of dawn bled through the arched window, thin and spectral. It was a cold, resentful light, as if the sun itself loathed to witness the wreckage they had left behind in that room.
Olivia stirred, her body heavy with the residual ache of the night. On her shoulder, a feverish warmth anchored her to the present—Mathias's hand. His grip was a desperate, unyielding shackle, his fingers locked around hers with a primal intensity that even the deepest exhaustion couldn't break. He held her not like a lover, but like a drowning man clutching a jagged rock.
She turned her head, her gaze raking over him with a chilling detachment. He was still submerged in a hollow sleep. Hours ago, his face had been a distorted mask of madness and raw agony; now, it wore a haunting stillness. It was the face of a man who hadn't just found peace, but had finally surrendered—drowning in the silent, jagged aftermath of his own internal storm.
