LENA
The dream felt real—too real.
Dom stood in the center of a forest soaked in blood. The trees groaned above us like witnesses, their bark slick with crimson where it splattered in arcs. Blood dripped from his arms, his chest, his hands—those hands that once touched me like I was something sacred. Now they were slick and trembling, curled into claws as if they couldn't let go of what they'd done.
His face was shadowed, but I could see the snarl etched into his mouth. Not at me. At the world. At the carnage that lay scattered at his feet. Wolves—dozens of them—broken and lifeless, their fur matted, their eyes wide and glassy. One twitched in the leaves, making a wet, gurgling sound before it stilled.
"Dom," I whispered, taking a step toward him.
He looked up slowly.
And what I saw in his eyes gutted me.
Not rage. Not sorrow. Not the storm I knew so well.
Nothing.
He didn't see me, didn't even recognize me.
