“He might disagree.”
“I am willing to risk offending him.”
The warmth vanished from Sule’s expression as quickly as it had appeared.
“If anything changes, you send for me. Immediately. I do not care if Isa is standing in the center of a ritual circle with every witch in Louisiana. I will come back.”
Leena’s smile flickered—warm, weary, and determined.
“I will.”
Sule studied her long enough to make it clear that he did not believe her.
“Now go,” she said. “They won’t wait forever.”
“They will if I order them to.”
“But you won’t.”
No.
He wouldn’t.
Sule lowered his head and kissed her, soft and lingering, as though he could leave a vow behind to guard her in his absence.
His hand moved over their son’s head, feeling the fierce heat of him beneath his palm.
Real.
Alive.
Grounding.
Then Sule made himself step away.
At the threshold, he looked back once more.
Leena remained too pale.
Too still.
The warning in his bones did not ease.
It deepened.
* * *
The adjoining warded suite felt like another world.
Rhen stood near the far wall, motionless as firelight cut jagged shadows across the stone. Veya slept beneath the covers, pale and still after another brief period of wakefulness.
She had not remained unconscious for ten nights.
She had opened her eyes, learned his name, and discovered what he had made her. Two nights later, the fever had finally broken and the first thirst had begun.
The hunger had been contained with stored blood, locked doors, and Rhen’s promise that he would end her if control failed.
She had obeyed.
