Nathaniel was awake.

Not that night.

After he'd left Leya at the mansion, her silence armor, he'd headed to the east wing. Where the paintings were, where the button-down-bloke blokes with dead eyes in frames—false gods in frames.

He didn't switch on the hall light.

Didn't switch it on.

The weight of her words fell behind him like footprints.

I don't need saving, Nathaniel. I need respect.

He stood beside the bed, suit jacket still buttoned, tie open but not ...