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He took her back to the cottage, slamming the door behind them. Lysander stood just inside, but didn't speak. Didn't move.

The cold clung to Idonea’s skin like a curse. It soaked through her clothes, down to her bones. Her hair dripped steadily, rivulets pattering onto the wood until a pool spread beneath her boots.

A raw, ragged scream ripped out of her throat.

She seized the nearest chair and hurled it. The impact cracked through the room, wood striking stone, but the chair didn’t shatter. It bounced, whole and useless.

Her chest heaved. “You were with me! You were with me the whole time!”

She staggered to the table, bracing herself against it. The edge bit into her palms, but she welcomed the pain. Her breath came in sharp bursts, her shoulders shaking.

“No!” Her fingers curled, knuckles white. “No, no, no—he can't—.”

She gripped another chair, ready to throw again, desperate to move, to break, to fill the void.

Strong arms closed around her.

Her arms were pinned tight against her sides, her back pressed against a chest that radiated warmth.

“Let me go.” She twisted against him, teeth clenched. “Let me go!”

He didn’t. His breath was hot against her temple, controlled.

The fury came back, sharper, more focused, burning through her lungs.

Lysander tightened his grip. “Breathe,” he said.

She fought it, every part of her straining against the word, against him. Her body betrayed her. A breath came, ragged and shallow.

“Please.” His breath ghosted against the curve of her neck. “Calm.”

Her head dropped back against his shoulder. Her hands were fists.

Her legs faltered. The fight drained out of her all at once, leaving her numb. She sagged against him, her body limp, trembling. Lysander didn’t flinch. He bore her weight as if he’d anticipated it.

She stayed there, caught in the cage of his arms.

Then, gently, he moved, guiding her towards the chair she’d nearly broken in her fury. His hand never left her arm, firm but careful.

Her limbs obeyed numbly, sinking down. The chair creaked under the wet weight of her clothes. She bent forward until her forehead pressed against her crossed arms on the table.

Her shoulders shook, but no tears came — only the raw sting of them, the tightness in her throat, the burn behind her eyes, the hollow knowing that another life had been lost.

Lysander stood a long moment behind her, silent. Then his hand rested between her shoulder blades. The heat of him bled through the soaked fabric, grounding her to the moment.

“I will vouch for you,” he said at last. “To your father.”

A bitter laugh rose, but died in her chest. She pulled her glasses off, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “They’ll shackle me regardless.”

Lysander crouched beside her, the movement slow, deliberate. When she looked down, his face was close, too close. Strands of hair clung wet to his skin. His eyes searched hers.

“I know you’re hurting,” he said. “But we will find it. We will destroy it.”

Her insides twisted sharply with the want to believe. The fear of it. Her breath hitched. She blinked fast, forcing the tears back where they belonged. Her hands clenched into the damp fabric of her sleeves.

Lysander’s gaze lingered on her face, then shifted away. He stood, the motion fluid, controlled.

“You should've a warm bath,” he said. “Before the chill takes you.”