The Amaris wing of the Wrencrest manor had been locked for a decade. It was a shrine to a family destroyed—both a warning and a secret. Kieran opened the door with a key he hadnʼt touched in years. Alara stood beside him, eyes dark, body tense.
Inside, the walls were lined with photos, documents, evidence of the crimes committed in the name of legacy. Her legacy. His familyʼs sin.
Alara moved like a ghost through the room. Her fingers brushed a photo of her mother. A younger version of herself. Her brother.
"I was nine,ˮ she whispered. "Two weeks before they came.ˮ "I didnʼt know,ˮ Kieran said.
"You did.ˮ
He didnʼt argue.
She found a letter—one addressed to her father. His fatherʼs signature at the bottom. She read it. Burned it. Said nothing.
"I thought this would make it easier,ˮ she said. "But it doesnʼt.ˮ
"Iʼm sorry.ˮ
She didnʼt answer.
When he held her, she didnʼt push him away.
And when she cried, he didnʼt look away.