“Like I can stand in front of the Houses tomorrow without collapsing,” he says. “How areyoufeeling?”
I manage a small sigh. “The craving’s still there,” I admit. “But it’s quieter. I can think around it again.”
He studies my face, searching for signs I’ve given too much. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“Good,” he says. “Then it was worth it.”
I sink back onto the mattress, my spine resting against the headboard. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed for a while, the glow under his skin a memory instead of a threat. Silence settles between us, steady rather than awkward. The tactical displays cycle through their patterns. Somewhere outside, the arena hums through its night routines.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Zevran says at last. “You should take the bed.”
“Don’t,” I say. The word comes out sharper than I mean. I soften it. “I’d feel safer with you next to me.”
His brows rise slightly. “Safer?”
“Someone walked into my room tonight using shadow magic and Uranus tech,” I say. “They held me with darkness I couldn’t touch.I don’t want to be alone.”
He nods once. “I understand.”
He moves to a chest near the weapons rack and pulls out a foldedblanket and a thin sleeping shirt. “Here. You can change in the washroom.”
I take them and cross to the large washroom. The mirror shows a face paler than usual, dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled. I splash cool water on my skin and let the chill sharpen my thoughts. That’s when I do a double-take: my eyes. They’re different. There’s less green, and more … gold.
Maybe it’s just the lighting in here,I lie to myself. I’m too exhausted to consider it any further.
When I return, Zevran has set a clay pitcher of water on the nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruit and a vial of painkillers. He’s changed into loose training pants, still shirtless, the veins now only faint lines beneath his skin.
We settle into the bed. He takes the side closest to the door, instinct placing himself between me and any threat. I slide under the covers on the other side, the mattress dipping slightly under our combined weight.
Close enough to share warmth. Close enough that we can’t pretend this is simple.
I ease onto my side, facing him. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“Zevran?” I say quietly.
“Mm?” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry for lying,” I say. “About who I was. About Mother. About all of it”
His eyes stay on the ceiling. “I know.”
“But … I’ll never be sorry for healing you,” I add. “Even if it feeds the addiction. I’m not sorry you’re not in pain.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
Then his hand finds mine in the dim light. His fingers curl around mine, steady and warm. He doesn’t pull me closer. He just holds on.
“One day … we’ll find a cure,” he says.
We fall silent again as his promise sinks in.
“Cyra, I … I don’t know what this is,” he says, voice lower. “I should hate you. You’re the daughter of the man who murdered my parents … you lied to me…”
“But?” I dare to ask.
“But … you walked into the Furnace for me,” he says. “You keep stepping between me and pain.” He turns his head to look at me, grey eyes dark in the low light. “I just need some time to figure this all out.”
He lifts his free hand slowly, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingertips are warm against my temple, as heat follows the touch down my throat.
