Roman stood rooted before the fire, his chest heaving as though every breath might break him in half.

The shattered glass split red wine across the stone, the flames hissing where the liquid spilt, the smell sharp and toxic in the air.

“Mr Blackwood.” The voice came in over the phone. “Mr Blackwood, are you there?”

But Roman didn’t respond.

“Roman…” Tessa’s voice was soft, almost fragile. She took a step toward him, her hands knotted together, torn between fear and the need to touch him.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his tone raw enough to cut. His shoulders were drawn tight, back rigid, every muscle straining against something he couldn’t contain....