Arielle sat by the bed with her arms folded, watching the rise and fall of Damien's chest like it was a puzzle she couldn't solve.
The fact that his chest was constantly rising and falling was the only thing that kept her going. He was still alive. His breathing confirmed it.
"I got it. The sixth one…"
That's what he'd whispered before going limp in her arms. That faint grin, that voice on the edge of exhaustion—calm, but satisfied.
But what did he mean?
Sixth what?
He didn't explain. Just dropped it like a secret only he could understand.
And now… he was asleep. Again.
Arielle stared at him, the confusion burning behind her quiet expression.
There were a dozen things she wanted to ask.
But she had to wait.
Several hours later.
Damien stirred.
The scent of pine. Leather polish. Lavender-infused bandages.
