The creak of the couch had woken him.
It wasn't loud—barely the shift of weight and warmth—but it was enough. Lachlan had trained himself to sleep light, and in a world like this one, it had become instinct. His eyes opened just in time to see the faintest slip of Sera's body sliding from the couch. She moved like liquid—silent, careful, composed.
She didn't grab a weapon.
Didn't throw on shoes.
Didn't even look back.
Lachlan didn't move, not at first. He slowed his breathing, muscles slack, eyes open to slits as he watched her pass through the hallway and pause by the window.
She froze.
And then so did he.
A pulse ran up his spine, not from fear—but from something else. Something deeper. Something feral.
