The woman in his arms

Lucas woke slowly, drifting up from the depths of a dreamless, heavy sleep. The first thing he registered was not a sound, but a feeling: a profound, bone-deep quiet. The frantic, buzzing static that had plagued his mind was gone, replaced by a gentle stillness. The second thing he registered was warmth. It was wrapped around him, a living, breathing heat that was both a comfort and an anchor.

He opened his eyes. The morning light, soft and gray, filtered through the large bedroom windows, painting the room in muted shades. The chaos of the previous night—the discarded clothes strewn across the floor, the memory of his own ragged sobs—felt distant, like a scene from someone else's life. All that mattered was the woman in his arms.

Carla was still asleep, her face turned toward him, her expression peaceful and unguarded. Her dark hair was a silken tangle on the white pillow, and her slow, even breaths were the only sound in the silent house. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, the slight flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek. This, he thought, was the only reality he wanted. This was the eye of the storm, the one point of stillness in a world that had been torn from its axis.

Last night had not been just about physical release; it had been an exorcism. He had poured all his terror, all his confusion, all his desperate, aching love for her into their embrace, and she had met him with a strength that had pieced him back together. She hadn't demanded answers he couldn't give. She hadn't recoiled from his brokenness. She had simply held him, her presence a fierce declaration that he was not alone. In the geography of his life, a landscape of fault lines and seismic shocks, Carla was his true north, the unshakeable ground beneath his feet.

He shifted slightly, carefully, not wanting to wake her, and his eyes fell on his jacket, tossed over a chair in the corner. In its pocket was the small, velvet-lined box from The Crow's Nest. The gift. The original purpose of his disastrous trip to the old town. A mission undertaken for her, for Zoya, for a life that felt normal.

A powerful, desperate urge to reclaim that normalcy washed over him. He wanted to build a fortress around this moment, around her, and pretend the world outside didn't exist. He wanted to go back to being the Lucas who worried about birthday presents and economics exams, not ancient prophecies and women with terrifying power. The gift was a way to do that. It was a gesture, a tangible piece of the life he was so desperate to protect.

He slipped out of bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. He tiptoed across the room, retrieved the box from his jacket, and returned to the bed. He sat on the edge, watching her for a moment longer before gently touching her shoulder.

"Carla," he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on his face. A soft, sleepy smile touched her lips. "Hey," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Early," he said. "I have something for you. Well, not _for_ you, technically."

She pushed herself up, leaning back against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. Her curiosity was piqued, her eyes clearing. "Oh? A mysterious gift before breakfast? I'm intrigued."

He placed the small box in her hand. "It's for Zoya's birthday. From yesterday. I almost forgot."

Carla's smile widened. She opened the box, her expression shifting from curiosity to genuine awe as she saw what was inside. The rosewood locket lay nestled against the black velvet, its dark wood gleaming with a soft, warm luster. The bloodstone at its center seemed to pulse with a deep, inner light, a single drop of captured twilight.

"Oh, Lucas," she breathed, carefully lifting it from the box. "It's beautiful. It's… perfect." She ran her thumb over the smooth, polished wood, her touch reverent. "It feels ancient. Like it has a thousand stories locked inside it."

"That's what I thought," he said, a genuine smile touching his lips. It felt good to see her happy, to have done something right in the midst of so much wrong.

"Zoya is going to lose her mind," Carla said, laughing. "She'll probably build an entire personality around this for a month. 'The Girl with the Haunted Locket'." She unclasped the delicate chain and lifted it, turning to him. "Help me?"

He moved closer, his fingers brushing the warm skin of her neck as he took the two ends of the chain. As he fumbled with the tiny clasp, his eyes were fixed on the locket as it settled into place just above her collarbone. It looked like it belonged there. The dark wood was a stunning contrast against her skin, the bloodstone a single, secret heart.

And then, a cold spike of dread pierced through the warm intimacy of the moment.

The locket. Bonnie. The whispers. The violent, terrifying seizure in the cafe. The unanswered calls.

He fastened the clasp, his fingers suddenly clumsy. The image of Bonnie's face, pale and terrified, flashed in his mind. He remembered her broken whisper, the desperate warning in her eyes before the taxi had pulled away. He had done that to her. His relentless questioning, his desperate need for answers, had unleashed something that had shattered her calm and left her… what? He didn't know. And that was the most terrifying part.

Carla turned back to him, her face alight with joy, completely oblivious to the sudden storm that had erupted inside him. She held the locket in her palm, admiring it. "It's really the most beautiful thing. Thank you, Lucas. For going to get it. For everything."

"You're welcome," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. He forced a smile, but it felt brittle, a fragile mask that could crack at any moment. He looked at the locket resting against her skin, a beautiful, perfect thing he had given her. A symbol of his love. And now, it was also a symbol of his guilt. A beautiful, haunted thing from a beautiful, haunted girl he may have broken.

He had wanted to reclaim normalcy, but the gesture had done the opposite. It had brought the darkness into the heart of his sanctuary. It was here, in his bed, resting against the skin of the woman he loved. He looked at Carla's smiling face, and all he could think was, _Is Bonnie okay?_ The question was a ghost in the room, a cold spot in the warmth of the morning, a new and terrible silence that had nothing to do with peace.