I woke up to the soft scrape of a chair leg and the quiet clink of porcelain. Killian didn’t say good morning; he never did. He set a cup of tea on my bedside table, steam curling into the cool air of his room, and leaned one shoulder against the window frame as if he’d been there forever, watching the pale sky lighten over the treeline.

The words he’d said on the phone last night kept replaying anyway, even with the tea warming my hands.

I’ll never let her leave. Not ...