Darius's POV
The air inside the tent pressed in on us, thick as iron, metallic with blood. The red haze smothered my vision—hot, unyielding, painting the world in a single brutal color. Seraphine writhed beneath my grip, her throat working in tiny, desperate swallows. Warm blood from her reopened wound slid across my palm in a thin, accusing line. She tried to speak my name—once, twice—but it cracked in her mouth like ice underfoot.
Then—
A sharp crack of canvas.
A gust of cold air.
And Cassian burst into the tent.
His entrance didn’t ask; it commanded.
Two steps—too fast for thought—and he was between us.
“Enough.”
His voice cut through the haze like a blade through bone.
His hand clamped around my wrist. He didn’t rip my arm away—he dismantled my grip with terrifying expertise,
