The echoes of the council room remained like a curse even after it had been cleared.
With her fingers pressed against the new mark at her throat, Elaria sat in the silence of Draven's room. It pulsed softly, much like a heartbeat rather than a wound, a rhythm that was no longer solely hers. Shadows were cast on the walls when the hearth fire broke. With no shirt on and his muscles taut in the torchlight, Draven stood close to the window.
Since they got back, he hadn't spoken anything. His quiet was not distance; rather, it was rage that was hardly contained, a tempest that was around him like wolves at a fire.
Finally, he turned, his golden eyes sharp. “I should never have let him force my hand.” His voice was low, strained. “That was not how I wanted you marked.”
Elaria’s hand cur
