The darkness in my mind slowly began to fade, replaced by a sharp, throbbing heat in my left shoulder.
I gasped, my eyes flying open. I expected to see the ruined ceiling of the Grand Opera House, or the cold, grey walls of a hospital dungeon. Instead, I was staring at a high ceiling made of dark, polished wood, lit only by the warm, amber glow of a crackling fireplace.
I was lying on an enormous bed wrapped in thick, emerald-green silk sheets. The scent of rain, rich bourbon, and raw power filled the air.
Julian’s private quarters.
I tried to sit up, but a sharp spike of agony shot through my left arm, making a soft whimper escape my lips.
"Don't move, little bird. You'll tear the stitches."
Julian’s deep, gravelly baritone came from the shadows beside the bed. I turned my head slow
