The silence stretched like a wire pulled too tight, humming with unspoken threats. Aria's pulse pounded in her ears, loud enough that she feared Sebastian might hear it too. His hand lingered on her arm, thumb stroking once, almost tender, though his gaze was sharp, cold as obsidian. He inhaled again, slow and deliberate, tasting the air.
"Smoke," he repeated, softer this time, as if savoring a flavor, a memory, a warning.
Aria swallowed, every nerve alight with tension. The cloak she'd hidden in the back of her wardrobe hours earlier still reeked faintly of gunpowder and sweat. Her gown, ruined with blood, had already been incinerated by Lorenzo's men. Yet her skin carried the memory, the faint metallic tang, an echo of violence and power.
"I was near the fireplace downstairs," she lied, careful, measured, her voice barely above a whisper.
