Celina’s POV
LUCIEN THOUGHT he was subtle. He thought I wouldn’t notice the way his jaw tightened every time he moved too quickly, or the faint stiffness in his shoulders when he slipped his jacket on. He thought I wouldn’t catch the way he excused himself from the room for longer than necessary, his eyes shadowed, his steps heavier than the man I knew.
But I wasn’t blind. I wasn’t his obedient doll who smiled and nodded while he burned himself alive in silence.
When I walked into his bedroom that night, the truth hit me like a blade to the gut. He was at the window, shirt discarded, moonlight spilling over his back like silver ink. And there it was—bruises mottled across his ribs, darker than shadows, angry welts that hadn’t healed the way a wolf’s should. And worse, when he turned,
