Lila
The door to Damon’s study gave under my hand with a soft groan, and the smell hit me first: ink, wax, steel oil, and him. Always him.
The room was half-shadowed despite the daylight, the tall windows crosshatched with lattice that carved the sun into bars across the floor.
The bars felt appropriate.
He looked up from the desk, a quill paused in his hand. Calm. That made me want to rip every map off his wall and slap the serenity off his face.
“Lila,” he said, like my name might coax me into gentleness.
“Are you marrying Elena?”
No preamble. No pleasantries or how are yous. The words came out raw and ugly, and I didn’t care.
Something flickered in his eyes that was there and gone just as quickly. He set the quill down with infuriating care, aligning it against the inkwell
