The chamber still rang with the echoes of her defiance. Wolves had risen in an uproar, voices cracking against one another, the parchment she held like a torch thrown into a den of dry kindling. But Elaria’s hand had not trembled. She had stood before them and dared Rhovan’s venom to strike her down, her body thrumming with the fire of the old law and the bond pulsing like a second heartbeat in her chest.
And Draven had not looked away.
His hand closed around hers as the chamber fractured into chaos. He didn’t speak—words were too small, too weak for what burned between them. Rather, he pulled her away, past the wolves' murmuring and torches, past the council's guarded glares, and into the lengthy stone passageways that led to the private wing of the keep.
As soon as their chamber door
