Sleep hit me like a truck.
By the time the Night of Offerings ended and I’d survived the “crying next to the holy fire in front of everyone” portion of the evening, I was running on fumes and pure emotional hangover.
The Fates got me out of the dress and into a soft nightgown. Someone braided my hair back loosely. Someone else shoved a mug of something calming into my hands. I drank it without asking questions because my brain had clocked out two hours ago.
I remember Evren walking me to my door, his hand brushing mine in a way that made my stomach flip, and me saying something real smooth like, “Thanks for not letting me fall into the fire, great date, ten out of ten, would emotionally unravel again.”
He’d huffed a quiet laugh, squeezed my fingers, called me “my lady” where the guards
