The air in the small hotel room felt heavy, thick with the faint scent of antiseptic from the first aid kit Amara had used earlier. Outside, the muffled hum of the city barely reached through the closed curtains, leaving the room in a strange, insulated quiet. Damien lay on the bed, still pale, his broad shoulders looking somehow smaller beneath the thin blanket.
Amara sat beside him, watching the slow, labored rise and fall of his chest. His skin was flushed with fever, and beads of sweat clung stubbornly to his forehead despite the cool, damp towel she’d placed there. She had seen him in so many states before—sharp-eyed and commanding, intimidating even—but never like this.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she murmured, wringing the cloth out in a small basin of cold water. “Ev
