Whispers in the Silence
The morning sunlight crept through the heavy drapes in slivered beams, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the otherwise still air of the mansion’s drawing room. Selena sat on the edge of the velvet chaise, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing. She could still feel the imprint of Alec’s arms around her—the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the rough brush of his stubble across her temple. That brief surrender had been both balm and poison, soothing her fear even as it reminded her of how tangled they had become.
She rose, moving almost instinctively toward the mantelpiece where the clock ticked in deliberate, measured clicks. Each second felt like an accusation: You let him in. You almost believed him. You’re still fragile. She closed her
