The apartment was warm. The lanterns had been lit for hours, their glow a soft gold against the stone walls, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The smell of fresh bread hung in the air, thick and sweet, because Theresa had started baking the moment she got home and hadn't stopped. Her sleeves were pushed up past her wrists, flour dusted across her forearms, her hands working dough with the same steady precision she brought to everything.
The bond between her and Dominic hummed with quiet warmth. She'd felt the moment Wobbly formed the helmet, felt the cold fury beneath it, and felt him choose to release. That was the part she kept returning to, turning over in her mind like a stone she couldn't put down. He could have killed Victor. He chose not to.
