The rain over the quadrant was not a mist; it was a physical assault, a sheets-down deluge that turned the limestone arches into teeth against a black sky. It was nearly midnight.

Valarr Targaryen drove his car through the campus gates with a violence that rattled the steering column, his hands gripping the leather so hard his knuckles threatened to pierce his skin.

His face was a shifting landscape of ruin—the angular jaw locked tight, his piercing blue-grey eyes completely blown out, tracking the sweeping windshield wipers through a film of hot, uncontrollable tears.

The image in his bedroom would not die. It was a loop playing on the inside of his eyelids. He had walked into the apartment three hours early, the key turning with a silent, heavy click. He had expected the dark.

Instead, he had found the hallway saturated in the thick, humid scent of Kiera’s amber perfume and the jagged sound of a laugh that did not belong to him.

When he pushed the door open, the world had dropped out from beneath his feet.

Kiera, her rich chocolate-black skin and neon-pink hair a chaotic tangle against the white sheets, and pinned over her, naked and mocking—his cousin Daeron. The family’s flawless golden boy.

The confrontation had been a grotesque, screeching blur of vulgarity and panicked sheets, but Valarr hadn't stayed to fight. He had taken his breath, turned his back on the months of systematic betrayal, and run. He hadn't gone to his father Baelor’s house; he would rather die than see the corporate satisfaction in his father’s eyes.

He had come here. To the edge of the Science district. To the small, concrete-block apartment building where the lights were always low and the world was always quiet.

He slammed the car into park, stumbled out into the freezing downpour, and practically threw his weight against the heavy wooden door of her building. His leather soles pounded up the narrow stairwell, a frantic, echoing rhythm that sounded like a retreat.

When he reached her door, he didn't knock; he broke against it. He beat his fist against the wood, his signet ring leaving deep, pale gasps in the paint.

"Open it," he choked out, his baritone voice ragged, stripped entirely of its aristocratic veneer. "Please. Just... open the door." A lock turned. The sound was distinct, a sharp, clean click that made his heart leap into his throat. The door swung inward, and there she stood.

She was exactly as she had been the day he cut her out of his ledger—calm, insulated, her dark, realistic black irises reflecting the hallway light with a devastating clarity. She wore a simple, faded sweatshirt, a stark contrast to the silk and luxury he had surrounded himself with for the past six months.

She looked at him, her gaze tracing the soaked pale ash blonde hair plastered to his forehead, the water dripping from the lapels of his charcoal overcoat, and the raw, red tracks of tears on his cheeks.

She didn't look angry. She didn't look pleased. She looked at him the way a scientist looks at a broken instrument. "Valarr," she said softly. It was the first time she had spoken his name in half a year, and the sound of it felt like a chemical burn against his skin. "You shouldn't be here. It's late."

"I know," he rasped, his breath coming in short, panting gasps as he took a step forward, practically forcing his way into the narrow threshold of her hallway. The scent of her room—clean paper, old cedar, and lavender—hit him like a physical blow. "I know I shouldn't. I know I have no right. But I had nowhere else to go. I couldn't go anywhere else."

She backed up slightly to give him space, her movements deliberate and unhurried.

"Where is Kiera?."

The name was a knife. A harsh, broken sob escaped his throat, and before he could stop himself, Valarr closed the distance between them. His hands came up, long, elegant fingers trembling violently as they reached for her. He didn't touch her skin—he didn't dare—but his fingers gripped the fabric of her sleeves, his head dropping until his forehead almost touched her shoulder.