Gabriel lowered the book onto his lap, fingers still unsteady as the last trace of sensation faded beneath his skin. The markings had nearly vanished, but their echo remained, a dull awareness climbing his arm like a memory that refused to settle.
The room felt smaller.
A faint draft slipped through the window, carrying the scent of the herbs growing outside, but the air around him felt wrong. Warmer than it should have been, as if the heat was not coming from the room at all. It felt drawn inward, pulled toward him, toward the book resting against his legs.
He let out a slow breath and forced his pulse to steady.
Carefully, he closed the book. He moved with restraint, wary that even the smallest motion might draw another response from it. The leather creaked softly beneath his hands, heavier now, as though its weight had increased without explanation.
His eyes began to droop.
