Alaric stumbled into the cool, silent expanse of the Valenti foyer, the grand marble echoing his unsteady footsteps. The scent of polished wood and expensive lilies, usually a comforting aroma of home, now felt cloying, suffocating. He couldn't shake Emilia's terrified face from his memory, her wide, haunted eyes. He couldn't wash her scent off him, a cloying mix of innocence and fear that clung to his skin like a shroud. And her voice... her small, frightened voice when she'd whispered, "It hurts." He had been her first, and he hadn't been gentle. The memory twisted in his gut, a vile, burning knot of self-loathing