Jonathan's footsteps struck sharp against the carpet, back and forth before the polished walnut desk, the weight of each turn rattling the pens in their holders. The lamplight caught on the leather of his chair and on the gold-framed portraits behind him, but he did not sit. He couldn't. Rage left no room for stillness.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw it again, Victor, upright and whole, crimson ether spilling like fire and glass across his hands. And beside him, Elias. His son. The son who should have been nothing.
Jonathan's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. 'It should have been Anna.'
