The air in the penthouse shattered completely.
Alaric's dark eyes burned with an unhinged, dangerous intensity she hadn't seen since the smoke cleared in Miami. The playful, teasing man who had cooked her breakfast and carried her to bed last night was entirely gone—replaced by a Hale who felt profoundly, savagely betrayed.
"Two days," Elena repeated.
She forced her voice to remain remarkably flat, though her chest felt hollowed out. Her signature, flawless mask slid over her features—the same numb armor she had used to survive Victor's threats, Lucien's slaps, and the cold reality of waking up alone in hospital rooms.
"Then it seems my family's arrangements are moving efficiently," she said softly, wrapping the words around her like an iron shield.
Alaric let out a short, humorless laugh that cut through the quiet kitchen like broken glass. He took a slow, deliberate step toward the counter, slamming his hands against the polished marble surface.
