VALENTINA I tried to wait up for Adrian. I really did. The fire had burned low, throwing lazy shadows across the living room, and I’d curled up awkwardly in the armchair facing the fireplace. I told myself I’d close my eyes just for a minute, but exhaustion won out, and the warmth of the fire pulled me under. I woke to the ghost of a touch. Cold fingers brushed my arm, and I startled upright, disoriented and heavy with sleep. The room was dark except for the faint, flickering glow of dying embers. Adrian stood over me, a shadow among shadows, smelling of smoke, gunpowder, and whisky. “I told you not to wait for me,” he said quietly. His voice carried that tight, clipped edge he used when he didn’t want me asking questions. “What time is it?” I mumbled, my voice rough with sleep. “It’s late.” I blinked against the dim light, trying to make out his face, to read the tension I could hear but not see. Reaching for him, my fingers brushed his arm only to find the fabric stiff and
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