The silence after the witch's departure was unbearable.
It clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, wrapping itself around us like smoke that wouldn't clear. The room still reeked of her presence ,cold, metallic, and wrong. The fire in the hearth spat and cracked, but its warmth felt hollow. The shadows she left behind seemed thicker, sharper, as though the walls remembered her words just as clearly as I did.
The blood always remembers.
Adrian hadn't moved. He stood rigid, every line of his body tight with control, though I could see the faint tremor in his hands where they curled into fists. His eyes, dark as endless night, were locked on me, not with arrogance or victory but with something far worse. With hunger, yes. With longing, always. But also with fear.
