The only light bled from a fat pillar candle on the mantel, painting the walls with liquid shadows. The air hummed with beeswax and sandalwood—Elara’s scent, the one that always meant the world was about to tilt. Silas was already on his knees on the rug, head bowed, his breathing a quiet tide. Seeing him like that, all his usual sharp angles softened into devotion, sent a familiar thrill through her—part possession, part...