Windsor's POV
The garden fell into complete silence. Most people had already left, and the decorative lights began switching off one by one, plunging us deeper into shadow.
Zion finally lifted his gaze to the moon overhead and spoke quietly. "I'm nothing like my family. You've probably noticed that already."
I nodded, studying his face in the pale moonlight that painted everything silver.
He exhaled slowly before continuing. "You could probably guess from looking at us. Our features, our coloring. I don't look like I belong with them."
He paused, and I shifted closer, sensing he needed encouragement.
"That's because they're not my real family," he admitted.
My chest tightened, but I stayed silent, giving him space to continue.
"I was born up north, in a place I try not to think about," he said. "When I was five, I watched my father murder my mother right in front of me. We were starving, living in poverty, and he decided death was better than suffering."
