Aurora barely slept.
Even after Kieran left the suite, the air remained heavy, like poison that refused to clear. She had replayed his words over and over, dissecting them, testing them for hidden traps. He wanted her back. He offered Logan's life in exchange. The audacity of it should have made her laugh—but instead, it lingered like a blade hovering just above her throat.
By dawn, she was seated on the balcony, knees pulled to her chest, her black hair messy, eyes hollow from lack of rest. Below, the Vltava River shimmered under a rising sun, tranquil and deceitful, nothing like the storm inside her.
Logan appeared behind her, shirt unbuttoned, hair still damp from the shower. He didn't say good morning. He didn't touch her. He just stood there, watching her like a man trying to memorize a painting that might disappear if he blinked.
"You're too quiet," he finally said.
"I'm thinking," she murmured.
