The Great Hall and the High Council could wait.
He had carried Amara back to their private quarters, ignoring Elio's protests and the hovering, anxious shadow of Hansen. He had kicked the heavy doors shut, locking out the world, the Estate, and the looming shadow of the Dravik legacy. Here, in the dim, amber glow of the fireplace, there were no Beastman and no mate. There was only a man who had almost lost his soul and the woman who had waded through a sea of silver poison to drag him back.
Amara was tucked into the oversized velvet armchair by the hearth, wrapped in a thick, cashmere throw that smelled of Darien's cologne, sandalwood and something deep, like a forest after a storm. Her face was still pale, the silver lines on her neck glowing with a faint, ghostly luminescence, but her eyes were alert, tracking Darien as he paced the room.
