Phei emerged from the private bedroom spotless.
Not a single drop of blood marred his skin, his clothes, or his hair.
The black frost that had cloaked him inside had receded like a tide, leaving only the faint chill that clung to the air around him — the way a storm leaves the smell of ozone long after the lightning stops.
He carried Emily in a careful princess carry — her head resting inside his warm embracive chest, arms limp across his chest, legs draped over his forearm.
Eira had already drawn the aphrodisiac poison from her system; the fevered flush was gone, replaced by pale exhaustion and shallow, even breaths... she'd completely healed Emily to absolute perfection.
She slept deeply, unaware.
She weighed nothing in his arms.
That was the thing that hit him hardest. Not the bruises, not the blood, not even the torn dress bunched around her waist that he'd carefully pulled down to cover her before he lifted her.
