The morning light in the West Village was too bright, too honest for the secrets huddled within the walls of Eleanor Vane’s townhouse.

Silas remained on the floor, his head still resting in Selene’s lap, his breathing finally slowing from the jagged rhythm of a panic attack. The "Ice King" had been dismantled in the span of an hour, replaced by a man who looked like he had been hollowed out by his own defenses. Selene’s fingers moved through his dark hair, a silent tether keeping him from drifting back into the cold.