At last, Whitethorn lifted his head. As
those green eyes settled on him, Lorcan
withstood the weight in his gaze, the innate
dominance. He’d been waiting for Rowan to
claim the vengeance he deserved, waiting for
that blow. Hoping for it. It had never come.
“We’ve come this far south,” Rowan said
at last, his voice low. “Better to go to Akkadia
than risk venturing all the way to Doranelle to
find we were wrong.”
And that was that.
Elide only threw a seething glare toward
Lorcan and rose, murmuring about seeing to
her needs before she went to sleep. Her gait
held steady as she crunched through the grass
—thanks to the brace Gavriel kept around her
ankle.
It should have been his magic helping her.
Touching her skin.
Her steps turned distant, near-silent. She
lily
(lily)
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