The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Kate's room, painting the abandoned furniture with an air of melancholic stillness. Deimon stood in the doorway, the sight of her empty space a punch to the gut. The memory of her tear-streaked face, the raw vulnerability in her eyes, echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his failure to protect her.
He'd found her huddled on a bench near the woods, her shoulders wracked with silent sobs. The sight had ripped something deep within him, a surge of protectiveness battling with a gnawing sense of helplessness. When she'd finally choked out the story of Monica's threats, a cold fury had settled in his stomach, turning his blood to ice.
How could they? How could anyone target Kate, a girl so innocent, so achingly alone in this world? Shame b
