Seraphine's POV
The canvas behind my back was cold, almost biting, as if it wanted to swallow the heat tremoring through my skin. My fingertips still scraped at the fabric in jittery, useless motions, trying to cling to anything solid. My throat burned with every swallow—raw, bruised, aching like something inside me had been scorched. My chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each breath stabbing the wound beneath the soaked bandage. The heavy stench of blood hung around us, turning every inhale into a struggle.
And still, I couldn’t look away from him.
Darius sat in front of me, frighteningly still—too still—like a predator trying not to spook a wounded creature. The red haze was gone from his gaze. What replaced it was something far worse: naked fear. Fear for me. Fear of himself. And
