As the first light of morning filtered through Alberta's perpetually grey and misty sky, the insistent, rhythmic vibration of my phone on the nightstand scattered the silver mists in my mind like a jagged blade.
Varg was gone; his side of the bed had long since grown cold, leaving behind only his heavy, wild scent—a mixture of ancient forest, gunpowder, and untamed dominance—and the deep, jagged wrinkles in the silk sheets. Then again, when had we ever truly "slept" together in the peaceful sense of the word?
Our proximity was never rest; it was a ceasefire in a war that had been raging for a thousand years. I wasn't surprised by his absence.
