The scent of perspiration and smoke permeated the room.
Elaria sat on the furs' edge, her lips damaged by his frantic mouth and her hair tangled from his hold. With one hand laying over the slight rise and fall of her tummy as though to secure her to him, Draven laid next to her, eyes closed but not sleeping.
They were not killed by the fire they had passed through, but the recollection of it lingered in their lungs like ash. Using her fingertips, she traced the jagged lines that were seared into his chest, each scar serving as a reminder of their shared experiences. He didn't flinch even though his skin was hot under her touch, fevered with anguish, and their bond was still strong. Rather, he grasped her hand and flattened her palm against his own heart.
His voice was hoarse and raw as
