When Aria returned to the cabin, her skin still damp from the stream, the cold night air clung to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it did little to warm her. She had no clothes to change into—just the torn, soaked remnants of the servant attire she’d worn for days. Her fingers shook slightly as she rifled through an old wooden chest in the corner of the room.
She pulled out a shirt that smelled faintly of pine and smoke, clearly once belonging to a man, oversized and heavy. She slipped into it, the hem brushing mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past her fingers. Her bare legs felt exposed, vulnerable, but she ignored the sensation. She needed strength, not shame.
When she stepped back into the main room, Draka wasn’t paying her any attention. He was crouched near the stallion
