Back at the manor, healers clucked and fussed and smeared something that stung like hell onto my arm before wrapping it in clean bandages. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, they said, but deep enough to leave a mark for a while.
Good.
Let it.
Let my father see it.
Let Lena see.
Let Lucian see.
When they finally left, murmuring instructions about rest and not doing anything “reckless” for a day or two, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the white strip around my forearm.
My hands still tingled sometimes, like there was someone else’s heartbeat echoing in my palms.
A knock came on the door.
Before I could answer, it opened.
Lucian stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click.
He looked… tired.
Not physically. He still moved with that same coiled grace. But
