Dawn came reluctantly.The sky outside Grey’s mansion bled pale silver through the high windows, light so thin it barely dared to touch the room. The fire in the grate had gone to ash, a bed of gray flecked with dying embers.Lana woke with her cheek pressed against the edge of the desk. The ledger sat closed beneath her hand, as if her body had refused to let go even in sleep.Her back ached. Her neck was stiff. But worse than either was the hollow ache of knowing she had spoken her fears aloud, let them seep into the silence where someone else could hear them.Her eyes cracked open.Grey sat not far away.He hadn’t taken the chair opposite, nor the one beside her, but instead had claimed the windowsill, one leg braced against the frame, arms crossed. The morning light carved his face in pale lines, sharpening every angle into something austere.She had half expected him to be gone — to have left her in that raw state, her secrets spilled like blood. But no. He had stayed.And worse:

The world smelled of smoke. Not the clean kind that rose from candles or firewood, but the acrid, ruinous scent of something gutted from the inside out. The European mansion — their supposed refuge — had become a skeleton of itself. The stone walls stood blackened and fractured, the windows shattered, the air thick with soot and the faint hiss of dying embers. The fire had burned fast and silent, too deliberate to be an accident. Lana stood in the gravel drive, arms wrapped around herself, watching a curl of smoke drift from what had been the east wing. The morning light turned the haze gold, almost beautiful — if she ignored the stench of ruin beneath it. Her fingers still smelled faintly of old paper and ash. Behind her, Grey’s voice cut through the silence, steady and low. “Keep your distance from the beams. The floor’s giving way near the study.” He stepped out of the smoke, his shirt streaked with soot, his jaw set in grim concentration. Even now, he was composed — moving t

The wind had died down by the time Grey shut the door, but the cold clung to the seams of the little hut. The paper bag he’d brought—bread, two tins, and a thermos—sat forgotten on the table between them.Lana hadn’t moved since he came in. The card still lay near her, charred around the edges, the faint trace of smoke curling from it as though reluctant to leave.Grey crouched beside her, studying the floorboards, the shadows, the corners. He didn’t touch her. “Whoever it was,” he said quietly, “they knew how to get this close without leaving a sound.”Lana nodded numbly. Her hands were stiff, her knuckles white against her knees. “He didn’t break in. He just… stood there. Like he knew I’d wake.”Grey’s gaze flicked to her. “He?”She hesitated. “I think so. His voice was low, soft. He said…” Her throat closed. The words still felt too heavy, too strange. Don’t trust him fully.Grey didn’t push. He stood slowly, arms folded, his profile sharp against the flicker of lamplight. “And the

The lamp had gone out sometime after midnight, leaving the hut soaked in blue-black quiet. Lana lay awake, eyes open to the faint glow leaking through the window slats. Every creak of timber felt amplified, every breath heavy with thought. Grey hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. But she knew he wasn’t asleep. He never was, not when his mind was circling the past like a wolf around a wound. She turned her head toward him. “Do you ever think,” she murmured, “that some things survive just to haunt us?” Grey’s answer was low, rasped, almost lost to the dark. “Every day.” It wasn’t a confession. It was a truth scraped raw. Silence stretched — long, heavy, pulsing with the echo of the stranger’s warning still alive in her skull: Don’t trust him fully. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have sounded so believable. Finally, Grey pushed himself upright. His outline cut against the faint glow of the dying embers. “There’s something you should see,” he said quietly. He rose, cross

By morning, the rain had thinned to a mist that clung to the trees like breath. The world outside the cabin was a blur of gray and green, silent except for the dripping of water through leaves. Grey hadn’t slept. Lana could tell by the way he stood at the window, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the fog. The torn page from Seraphine’s letter lay on the table between them — five words that had rearranged everything they thought they knew. You’re looking in the wrong fire. Lana rose quietly, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “You’ve been standing there for hours,” she said. Grey didn’t look away. “I keep thinking about the timeline. If Seraphine’s right — if there was another fire — then the one that killed my mother might’ve been staged. Everything since might’ve been built on that lie.” “She’s baiting you,” Lana said softly. “Or warning you. I can’t tell which.” He finally turned, eyes shadowed but alert. “There’s an old Thompson site north of here — a textile property. It b