Seraphine drifted in and out of consciousness as Nightfall carried her home.
Arms caught her gentler than she expected. Voices blurred together. The sharp scent of iron clung to her skin, thick enough to choke.
Her blood.
Every pulse hurt.
When she finally surfaced, it was to the sound of breathing slow, controlled, unmistakably familiar.
Lucien.
She lay on a wide stone bed in the Alpha’s private chamber, the ceiling arched high above her. Bandages wrapped her palms, glowing faintly with healing sigils. The cuffs were gone.
Her wrists were bare.
She flexed her fingers slowly.
“Don’t move.”
Lucien’s voice came from beside the bed. Low. Strained.
She turned her head.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, forearms braced on his knees, head bowed like he was holding himself together
