He reached out and took the photograph from my fingers, his touch light but firm.

His thumb brushed the edge of the yellowed paper, and for a fleeting second, his stern expression softened.

“This belonged to my sister,” he said.

“Elena,” I whispered.

He looked up sharply, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

“How do you know her name?”

“You murmured it earlier, when you were asleep,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “And the staff at the restaurant sometimes talk about her.”

Lucian did not look entirely convinced, but he did not press the issue.

He stared down at the photograph again, his jaw clenched tight.

“She loved this garden,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet grief.

Then, his gaze drifted from the photo in his hand up to my face.

His eyes stopped on my neck.

The silver locket rested against my collarbone, catching the orange glow of the firelight.

Lucian took another step closer, close enough that I could smell the rain and cedar on him.

He raised his hand slowly, as if he were trying not to startle a wild animal.