The fire in the hearth had died down to embers, leaving the master bedroom in a cold, grey twilight. The massive four-poster bed, usually a place of comfort, loomed like a sepulcher in the shadows.
Marissa sat on the floor, leaning against the heavy oak leg of the bed. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her posture small and defeated. She was wearing a simple nightgown, her hair loose and messy around her shoulders.
She looked at the small table beside her.
On it lay the silver locket, its latch broken, its heart hanging open like a wound. Beside it lay a small, framed portrait of Derek. He was wearing his commander's uniform—the black coat, the silver buttons, the stern expression. It was the way she liked him best. Powerful. Important. Invincible.
Marissa reached out with her left hand. It was wrapped in a clean white bandage, covering the jagged cuts she had gotten from tearing down the funeral wreaths earlier that day. She picked up the portrait.
