“Do you ever think we’re just playing with fire, Lyra?” Damian’s voice was a low growl, carrying the weight of something raw—something neither of us had acknowledged. His hands were still on my wounds, his fingers gentle despite the harshness of his words. I could feel the heat of his touch through the fabric of my torn shirt, and I hated the way my pulse quickened.
I didn’t answer at first, the question hanging in the air like smoke. Instead, I stared out the cabin window, watching the shadows of the trees sway in the wind. Every breath I took stung, a reminder of how close we’d come to death just hours before. The ambush by Marcus’s pack had left us both battered and bloody, but it was the emotional scars that ran deeper.
“I don’t know if I believe in destiny anymore,” I finally said,
