Her gaze shifted to the bed across from her, another ostentatious display in itself, large enough for Orion.
But it was not the bed that captured her attention—it was its occupant.
Draven had not yet gained consciousness. After healing him on the road, he had passed out, likely from the blood loss. Despite her weakened bonds, she was able to stop the bleeding from the arrow wound, but she had never been able to replace a person’s blood volume quickly.
Astraia discovered this inconvenient restriction to her Sacrifice bond during a house call in the slums, when a woman was bleeding profusely after childbirth. Despite Astraia flaring her Sacrifice bond to its limit, the woman did not survive.
It still haunted her.
Draven’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath the silk sheets. Astraia had not left his side since they arrived, guilt-ridden knowing the only reason he was here was because of her.
He’d followed her, protecting her for some unknown reason.
She stood, stretching her legs, and sat on the edge of the bed. Gently, she pressed two fingers to his wrist and checked hispulse. It was far stronger than when they arrived, and warmth had returned to his skin.
Astraia sighed in relief. Her bond tickled her spine at the faint touch of his skin, and she removed her hand, shivering. Cursing silently, she concentrated instead on his breathing pattern—even, unlabored, and soft.
She could make out the contour of his muscles beneath his shirt, his armor having been removed. Tattoos peeked from beneath his shirt sleeves, just above his hands. She could just make out letters of an old language she did not recognize ornamenting his right arm but did not dare roll up his sleeve to investigate.
Her gaze climbed to his face. The sharp angles had softened, his brow relaxed as he slept. His lips were parted, somehow a shadow of that frustrating smirk lingering. And his disheveled golden hair shimmered in the morning light.
Without hesitation, Astraia lifted her hand to sweep a small section of hair from his face. Her touch lingered, the same electric wave pulsing through her blood.
Hesitantly, she lowered her hand—as amber eyes opened, meeting hers.
The room was silent.
Draven did not blink, nor did he tear his gaze from hers. The roughness of his finger grazed Astraia’s hand that rested on the bed as warmth surged through her.
“You’re not dead,” she whispered.
“Shame,” he rasped. “Was hoping for some peace and quiet.” His infuriating smirk returned to the left side of his mouth.
“Stars, you’re insufferable,” she replied, a small curve forming on her own lips.
His eyes darted around the room, lingering on the etched ceiling, fine drapery. His voice dropped. “This isn’t an inn.”
“No,” she replied. “It’s a favor.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the room. Astraia stiffened just slightly before the knock—an old reflex.
“May I come in?” A man’s voice—smooth, low, and laced with both curiosity and something else.
“Yes,” she answered, standing hastily at the foot of the bed just as the door opened.
Looming in the doorway was someone Astraia never thought she would see again. He was dressed in typical Volpes nobleman attire, everything too perfect and too tailored. A captain’s signet was embroidered on his right sleeve, and a sword hung by his side. His jet-black hair was cut shorter than she remembered, but his green eyes were just as wild, and so eerily similar to Elion’s.
His steps faltered as he stared at her.
“By the Stars… I thought you were dead.” His voice broke faintly, and he took a cautious step closer—then a second. “They said you burned.”
“Apparently not,” Astraia responded, calm but clipped.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Draven rise slowly to a sitting position. His jaw ticked, but he did not speak.
The visitor turned to Draven, his mask slipped back on—noble, but challenging. “I assume you’re the reason she was bleeding on my doorstep.”
Draven glowered at the man. “And you are?”
