Ayla had thought that when Silas said he would arrange it, there would be time.
Time for her heart to prepare.
Time for her mind to catch up.
Time to breathe.
But there was no time.
Three days later she was sitting inside a quiet civil office, holding a pen that felt heavier than it should, staring at a document that bound her life to his with black ink and official seals.
Her fingers were trembling.
Only yesterday the bandages had been removed from her wrist. The skin underneath was pale and tender, a thin light scar running like a quiet memory across it. She had stared at that scar for a long time, touching it gently, reminding herself that she had survived her weakest moment.
And now, not even twenty four hours later, she was signing her name beside Silas Williams.
It was absurd.
It was unreal.
