Maya checked his pulse. Fast and irregular, but not catastrophic. A panic attack, triggered by the storm and the memories it carried.

“Breathe with me,” she said, beginning to inhale slowly.

He laughed bitterly, breathlessly, at the instruction. “You think breathing fixes everything in this world?”

“No. But not breathing certainly fixes nothing at all.”

His mouth tightened, and after a moment, unwillingly, he followed her lead. The rain grew harder, thunder rolling over the mansion and shaking the foundation as Arthur closed his eyes.

Beneath the sharp lines of his face, Maya saw something terrible—not power, not arrogance, not cruelty, but a man trapped in the exact second his life had ended.