The grey light of dawn had filled the room, chasing away the shadows, painting the stone walls in shades of silver and pearl. The fire was dead, the embers cold, and the silence between them had shifted once more, no longer heavy with fear or charged with anger, but tense, electric, waiting for a spark. The room felt smaller than it had before, the walls pressing in, the air thick with things unsaid.
Kaelen sat on the window seat, his arm still around Rosalind's shoulders, her head still on his chest. But the warmth between them had faded, replaced by something brittle, something that might shatter if they spoke the wrong words. His hand, which had been tracing comforting circles on her arm, had stilled. Her body, which had been relaxed against his, had gone rigid.
They had been sitting like this for hours, not speaking, simply being. The anger had surfaced, been spoken, and released. But the wounds beneath the anger were still raw, still bleeding, still in need of air and light.
