The soft, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound in the master suite, punctuated by the distant, mournful cry of a foghorn out at sea. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of lavender and the heavy, electric tension of a past that only one of them could remember.
Mild sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers lightly tracing the faint, white circular scars on Arm's wrists—reminders of a night of madness that Arm's mind had scrubed clean, even if his skin had not.
"You're looking at them again," Arm said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made Mild's heart skip. Arm sat propped up against the headboard, his eyes—once storms of possessive rage, now pools of confused curiosity—searching Mild's face. "The marks. You told me about the shack in Oakhaven, and the snow... but you haven't told me how I got these."
