Ayla
The ache was back. Not a whisper. Not an echo.
A roar.
It curled low in my belly, tight and hot and humiliating. I gripped the reins until my fingers ached, trying to focus on anything else, the weight of the snow in the trees, the rhythmic crunch of hooves against the frozen trail, the raw burn in my throat from holding back tears.
But it was no use. My body was louder than my grief and I hated it.
I hated that even now after everything, after Rowan, after everything I had lost my body dared to want. To need.
I shifted in the saddle, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. It didn’t help. The heat was rising again, slow and sickening, like fever spreading from the inside out.
Damien rode ahead, dark and straight-backed, his cloak snapping like a warning flag behin
