Odette's POV
For a long time after he left, I sat frozen—hands clutching the sheets, heart still hammering against my ribs like it hadn't realized the danger was gone.
The air felt different now. Lighter, maybe, but charged—like the echo of his presence still lingered somewhere in the room. I could smell it: that faint trace of iron and something else, something smooth and cold that didn't belong to this place. It was strange how silence could feel heavy, like his voice still lived in it.
I slowly loosened my grip on the bed and exhaled shakily. "He's gone," I whispered to myself. My voice sounded small, unsure. I waited for a moment, half-expecting an answer, but there was none. Just the faint hum of the night outside and the rhythm of my own breathing.
I pressed a palm against the sheets, the cotton cool against my skin, and let my mind spiral back to the impossible question: where had he gone?
