"I feel like a ghost haunting my own life," I whispered into the plastic receiver. "I spend every second counting down to a moment I can't even see yet. It's cold, Lucien. It's loud. And it smells like nothing but iron and bleach."

I searched those golden eyes for the grounding weight I usually found there. Lucien's gaze darkened, his hand tightening on his own phone. He leaned closer to the glass, his presence so intense that the sterile visiting room seemed to shrink around us.

"You are not ...