Kianna's POV:
The room felt heavier after Mordred stormed out, the door slamming like a punctuation mark on our latest disaster.
Lysander sank back against his pillows, wincing as he adjusted his bandaged arm, the IV stand rattling beside him.
I paced the linoleum, my coffee forgotten and cooling on the floor where I'd dropped it. The argument's echoes still rang in my ears—Mordred's desperate pleas and my own sharp accusations. The photos from that forum post burned in my mind: him with that brunette, tangled in sheets that looked suspiciously like his.
Fake or not, the betrayal stung, even if doubt nagged at me. But now, with the unknown text hanging over us like a storm cloud, and those horrifying images of Lesley tied to a chair with her eyes wide with fear—Mordred was out there chasing shadows alone.
The volunteer in me wanted to call him back, but the fury? It kept my phone in my pocket for now.
