Chapter Eighteen
Night drapes itself over the manor like a heavy blanket, thick and unmoving. The lamps are turned low. The curtains are drawn. Our wing is quiet enough that I can hear the tiny sounds that belong only to Bella—her soft breaths, the unsettled shift of sheets, the little hum she makes when she’s almost asleep but not quite. The wards thrum under it all, a constant, low vibration that I can feel in my bones now, the way you feel a subway train long before it bursts into the station.
Bella’s tucked into her bed, face turned toward me. I’m on mine, across, head on the pillow, eyes open. The ceiling is a pale rectangle in the darkness. The carved posts of our beds rise like careful trees, shadows long and dark against the walls. It should feel safe. It doesn’t.
My mouth still
