The water had long gone still.
Gabriel sat at the edge of the massive bath, robe draped loose over his shoulders, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, not of the bath he took, but the pulse building beneath his own. A low, aching pressure curled in his stomach like a coil tightening with every breath. The onset was no longer creeping.
It had arrived.
His heat had bloomed in full, merciless and quiet.
He stood carefully, movements fluid but tight, and stepped barefoot into the adjacent room, where the air was heavier, warmer, and already tuned to his body.
Edward had been here. The signs were unmistakable.
The table had been set with surgical precision. Real food, plated simply: warm bread, crisp fruit, soft-cooked grains with herbs, spiced broth, tea. Not engineered, but still chosen for its nutrients.
The curtains were drawn. The fireplace had been lit and then dimmed down again, just enough to keep the room cozy without suffocating.
And Edward—gone.
