Aria stirred to the rustle of wind outside and the faint crackle of fire. Her eyelids fluttered open, lashes brushing her cheeks, and the room slowly came into focus. The dim light of the hearth cast flickering shadows against the stone walls, and her body ached in dull, persistent waves. Every muscle remembered the escape and the stubbornness of hers.
She sat up slowly, her breath catching as her eyes found him.
Draka.
He was seated on the only chair in the room, head tilted back, eyes closed. Even in rest, there was something predatory about him—tense muscles beneath scarred skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his hand resting close to the dagger strapped at his side.
But it wasn’t his weapon that held her gaze.
It was his throat.
His Adam’s apple bobbed subtly as he swal
