POV: Nyxara
Mira hadn't let go of my hand in three days. The healers said she would recover physically. The gashes across her stomach were closing, the broken ribs mending. But the look in her eyes, that hollow, haunted emptiness, I knew that wound would take much longer to heal.
Because I'd worn that same look three weeks ago.
"Will you stay?" she whispered, her voice small in the quiet of the healing room.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised, brushing her dark hair back from her face.
"My pack is gone. My family is dead." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "I have no one."
My throat tightened. "You have me."
She looked up at me with desperate hope. "Really?"
"Really." I squeezed her hand. "We're survivors, Mira. Both of us. And survivors have to stick together."
For the first time
