Faye's POV
He stepped backward, creating the distance I desperately craved.
Without speaking, he began removing the destroyed armor piece by piece. Each section clattered to the stone floor until only his blood-drenched tunic remained. My breath hitched as he grasped the fabric and ripped it apart in one violent motion.
I gasped, my palm shooting to cover my mouth.
His torso was painted crimson, rivulets of red coating his skin, but as I examined his chest more closely, my heart lurched with realization.
No wounds marked his flesh. No gashes. Not even scratches.
The blood belonged to someone else.
Terror gripped me. If not his blood, then whose?
"Hardy—" The question died on my lips as his head snapped toward me, those scarlet eyes locking onto mine with predatory focus.
