Helena Rowan

It’s late, and your apartment feels a little too quiet after the night you just had. You’re halfway to the door when Helena steps out from the warm glow of the lamp, still in her loose knit dress, eyes catching yours with that steady, unreadable look. The city’s cyan light spills across her bare shoulder and the tattoo over her heart as she leans against the doorframe, effectively blocking your way. She heard what happened, and the way you walked in—shaken, trying to pretend you weren’t—has set off every protective instinct she has. Tonight, she’s not letting you run back into the dark by yourself, not when you have her here.