Chapter 118 Target Practice

• I arched a brow, but Rafayel’s hand was already in my hair—a fleeting caress that felt like a seal. “Trust me.”
• His lie hung thicker than his cologne as the elevator swallowed him whole, leaving only silence and the glacial weight of the milk glass in my hand.
• The corridor stretched into a tomb. Moonlight cut through the villa’s stillness like shards of broken glass, hunting me as I limped back to my room.