Vaeron stood at the edge of the king-sized bed, his gaze fixed on the woman lying motionless beneath the heavy covers. For a moment, he said nothing, attention centered solely on the werewolf princess.
Her breathing was steady now, chest rising and fall in even breaths, her chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm that was almost enough to quiet the storm inside him.
Almost.
The dirt, blood, and ash that had clung to her skin were gone, washed away until her face was left bare and unguarded. Without the grime of battle, she looked younger somehow—softer, more fragile than she had been beneath the chaos of the ruined fair.
A thick blanket had been drawn over her, tucked close around her body, leaving only the graceful line of her neck and the pale curve of her face exposed to the firelit room.
She was still far too pale.
