The foyer of the Dravik estate had always felt like a cathedral. But tonight, as the massive doors groaned shut against the damp night air, the silence was suffocating.
Darien didn't set Amara down. He couldn't. His arms felt locked in place. He carried her across the vast expanse of marble, his boots leaving a faint, crimson trail of grit and drying blood. He looked like a man who had walked through hell and brought back a piece of the sun. His tuxedo was a ruin but he didn't feel the cold. He only felt her.
She was so light. It was a terrifying kind of lightness, like holding a bird with a broken wing. Amara's head rested against the hollow of his shoulder, her breath coming in shallow, hitching spurts that puffed against his neck. Every time she winced in her sleep, a fresh wave of heat rolled off his skin, his inner shadow snarling at the sheer audacity of the world for hurting her.
"Master Dravik," a voice whispered from the top of the grand staircase.
