Seraphina's POV
Caldwell sent three messages for every one of mine.
It was a habit I'd noticed back when I was stuck in the Alaska healing center.
He never sent long paragraphs; he broke everything into short sentences. The notification pings hit my phone like rain against a window—persistent and rhythmic.
I couldn't help but picture him as some obsessive, stubborn old scholar, probably peering through thick glasses to make sure I took my meds on time.
The thought made me let out another soft laugh.
Mortimer sat across from me, but he never found an opening to jump into the conversation.
Suddenly, the air grew heavy with a scorched, bitter scent of pine.
"Who is it? Messaging this early?" He asked the question casually, but there was an undertone of suppressed violence in his voice
