Morning arrived slowly, gray light slipping through the curtains of Cael Alexander's penthouse as if even the sun hesitated to enter. The storm had passed. The city below looked clean, rinsed raw.
Galathea Brooks woke up first.
For a moment, everything felt quiet. Cael's arm rested loosely over her waist, heavy and warm, his breathing steady against the back of her shoulder. The memory of the night before lingered—not frantic, not desperate, but shelter. A place to collapse without breaking.
She should have felt calm.
Instead, something inside her stirred.
A pulse.
Not her heartbeat.
She frowned slightly, eyes still half-closed. The sensation spread like ink in water -- slow at first, then sharper, curling beneath her skin. Her palm tingled. Heat gathered there, unnatural, insistent.
The Knife.
The thought hit her with sudden clarity.
