The mansion swallowed them upon return.
Vera had expected the mask to slide back into place — the performance, the pretense, the careful distance.
But Marcus had changed during those seventy-two hours of isolation. Something in him had snapped, or perhaps solidified, and the predator no longer bothered with camouflage.
At dinner on their third night back, his eyes tracked her movements with naked hunger. When she reached for wine, his gaze lingered on her throat. When she laughed at Elena's anecdote, his jaw tightened with visible restraint.
Elena noticed nothing, chattering about charity galas and redecorating the guest wing, her hand resting on Marcus's sleeve with familiar intimacy that now seemed grotesque.
Vera sat across from them, her thighs pressed together beneath linen, fe
