Luna pressed herself into the corner of the carriage, knees tucked close as if she could make herself smaller. The wood beneath her vibrated with each turn of the wheels, a steady tremor that traveled up her spine. Every few seconds her eyes flicked toward Draven, then darted away. He was not looking at her. Not once.
The absence of his gaze burned. For days he had watched her—sharp, assessing, possessive. Now the silence and his closed eyes felt worse than any glare. Her stomach twisted. She swallowed, but her throat stayed dry.
When the carriage jerked forward at the king's command, the motion threw her forward an inch before the straps of the seat held her back. Across from her, Draven leaned his head against the dark velvet cushion. His lashes stayed down. The line of his jaw was sharp in the dim light, unmoving. For the first time since she'd known him, the king looked distant. Unreachable. And that terrified her more than his anger.
