Possession's Grasp

The air in the drawing-room had curdled sometime after midnight. Liam, who had been trying to coax a reluctant fire back to life, felt it first – a prickling unease that had nothing to do with the chill. It was a shift, subtle yet profound, like the moment before a storm breaks. He glanced at Maya, who was hunched over a stack of brittle, leather-bound books on the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration. Chloe sat on the worn velvet sofa, her knuckles white where she gripped a mug of tea that had long gone cold. Noah, predictably, was nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a whiskey in his room.

“Think it’s going to be a cold one,” Liam muttered, poking at the dying embers.

Maya didn’t look up. “The cold is the least of our worries, Liam.” Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth.