The rain started just after midnight, drumming against the penthouse windows like impatient fingers. Seraphina couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Victor's ritual circle from those satellite photos – carved deep into the earth like a wound that wouldn't heal.
Damon was sprawled across their king-size bed, one muscled arm flung over his eyes, finally getting some rest after three straight days of crisis management. She envied him. Her mind was like a hamster on a wheel, spinning the same worries over and over.
She padded to the kitchen in bare feet, the imported marble floor cold against her skin. The city spread out below their floor-to-ceiling windows – most of London dark except for the orange glow of streetlights and the occasional insomniac's window. It looked peaceful. Like the calm before someone decides to ruin everything.
