He entered and closed the door quietly behind him.
The room smelled of milk, clean linen, dying fire, and the lingering iron trace of birth.
The tether to Veya followed him inside.
It throbbed beneath his sternum, a reminder of the woman he had transformed and the obligation he could no longer discard.
Veya remained an unknown threaded with heretic magic and bound to him through a decision neither of them could reverse.
Leena was known.
Trusted.
Loved.
Untouchable.
Rhen watched her breathe.
Slow.
Shallow.
Too measured.
He was there because Sule had trusted him with the one life neither male could bear to lose—and because refusing had never been possible.
Leena opened her eyes.
“Rhen.”
Her voice was faint.
He remained near the door.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
A tired smile touched her mouth.
“You sound like Sule.”
“That should terrify you.”
“It does.”
The attempt at humor did little to ease the cold beneath her skin or the strain around her eyes.
Rhen studied her.
“You’re worse.”
“I’m tired.”
“Bullshit.”
Her brows lifted weakly.
“Such tenderness.”
