Draven’s wounds throbbed with every step he took, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him stumble.
His exit from the church felt heavier than he expected, like a noose had been slipped around his neck and he had only just noticed. The wind was cold against his sweat-drenched skin, the stars above indifferent to his pain.
Mercy.
That was what they called it.
But he knew better.
Celine had let him live, not because she pitied him, but because she wanted him to know that she could have ended him if she wanted to. That she had chosen not to.
That was worse than death.
But Draven didn’t believe in unfinished stories.
And this one?
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Back at the manor, Celine watched the flames flicker in the fireplace, her fingers l
