Kane slumped in a wooden pew, his amber eyes tracing the intricate patterns of stained glass.
Saints and angels gazed down at him, their painted faces serene in judgment.
Do I want him to back out?
The question gnawed at him. Freedom had been his mantra for weeks—escape from the tether that bound him to Cyrus's shadow. But now, faced with its dissolution, something hollow opened in his chest.
Above, Cyrus stood on the cathedral's stone balcony, watching constellations fade into pale gray. The stars offered no answers, only their slow retreat before dawn's advance. His fingers gripped the cold railing.
Was any of it real? The sparring sessions, the quiet moments over breakfast, and Kane's ridiculous snack choices that somehow made the penthouse feel less like a mausoleum.
Or was it all just the bond's artificial pull?
Footsteps echoed in the nave below. Kane, restless, wandered the shadowed aisles.
