No one spoke. Even the air seemed to be still.
Michael turned his gaze to the window, the soft sunlight now dulled by gathering clouds. His reflection stared back at him—haunted, older than his years, and burdened by choices he could never undo.
The last of the afternoon sun sliding through stained glass and painting the floor in bruised colors. Lucius sat with his hands folded on the heavy oak table, his face a map of lines that deepened with each word he spoke.
“Rejecting a mate is a taboo with our kind,” he said at last, his voice low and controlled but threaded with a disappointment that made it sharper than any command. “But what you did—marking another when you have a fated mate…that is something never done.” He let the sentence hang like a verdict.
Michael’s shoulders sagged. He
