Mara
When I came back upstairs to wake Tiffany, I found her cradling Emma, breastfeeding in the soft morning light. The scene stopped me cold.
There was a quiet stillness between them—an intimate, sacred calm that made the storm waiting outside feel even more vicious. For a moment, I wished I didn’t have to break it.
“Tiffany,” I said gently.
She looked up at me, eyes still soft from sleep and motherhood. I kept my voice even, steady—because panic was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
“We have to go. Now. To the Nighthorn Mansion.”
Her brow creased. “Did Lucian or Darian tell you that?”
“No.” I shook my head, holding her gaze. “I did.”
She stared at me, confusion hardening into concern. I didn’t give her time to argue.
“Trust me, Tiffany. It’s not a choice. It’s about survival.”
She
