The morning light filtered softly into the dining room, brushing against the long table where Elena sat with a barely touched breakfast in front of her. The food had gone cold. She hadn't noticed.
Her eyes kept drifting toward the doorway, her heart heavy with a worry she couldn't silence. Damian still wasn't back.
Every sound made her tense.
Then she heard footsteps.
Slow. Familiar.
Elena looked up.
Damian walked in.
For a split second, relief flooded her chest so strongly it almost knocked the air from her lungs.
She straightened instinctively, already preparing the anger she had rehearsed all night— every complaint she had promised herself she would say.
But then she saw his arm.
Her breath caught.
The sleeve of his shirt was slightly rolled up, and there it was—a wound, hastily dressed, still raw. The anger vanished instantly, replaced by panic.
