- Ronan Hale:
Elara's room was warm, dimly lit by the candles she had scattered across the shelves. The scent of something sweet—maybe lavender—lingered faintly in the air, but it wasn't strong enough to hide the smell of old books and the faint trace of burned herbs. A witch's room, through and through.
I sat on the couch, wine in hand, watching the amber liquid swirl inside the glass bottle as I took a slow sip. I wasn't drunk—not yet, at least. But I figured if this night dragged on any longer, I might be by the end of it.
Across from me, Elara sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning against the headboard with a determined look in her eyes. She was in one of her moods—the kind where she got an idea into her head and wouldn't let it go until she saw it through.
And standing near the window, as far from me as he could be without actually leaving the room, was him.
Lucien.
