The riverside park was supposed to be empty. Galathea Brooks stood near the iron railing, the cold metal biting into her palms.
Dusk stripped the warmth from the city, leaving a bruised sky and the heavy scent of the river. The water churned, reflecting the light of streetlamps that clicked on with a dull buzz. A gust of wind ripped through the cedar trees.
She needed the cold. She needed the isolation. Her mind was a tactical board, replaying the third incident in a relentless loop.
Three times this week, the environment warped around them. Cael had deliberately stepped between her and the unseen pressure, his jaw tight, his control absolute.
'It's escalating,' she swore in her head, her teeth grinding together so hard her jaw ached. 'And my territorial fiancé refuses to tell me how bad it actually is.'
A footstep scraped against the concrete pathway.
Not casual. Not the wandering pace of evening foot traffic. Deliberate. Measured.
