Amara’s POV

The dining room was quiet, too quiet. The only sounds were the faint clinks of silverware and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock on the far wall. Garvin sat across from me, his movements deliberate, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet mine. Every time they did, I felt an uncomfortable chill crawl up my spine.

I hadn’t touched my food. The aroma of roasted meat and wine sauce did nothing to soothe the dread coiling in my stomach. I watched as he cut another ...