CHAPTER 180
Clara stood in the center of the guest room's wreckage, her chest still heaving in a rhythm that mirrored the flickering emerald sparks dying out on her fingertips.
The air was cooling rapidly, the unnatural heat of Alaric's rut being devoured by the frost of her magic.
She looked down at her hands—pale, trembling, and stained with the faint scent of Alaric's sweat and the lingering rut.
From behind the closed door of the en-suite bathroom, the sound of rushing water began.
Clara's legs felt like they were made of spun glass, ready to shatter if she shifted her weight.
She stared at the spot where Lucian had stood. The Sovereign had left them in the ruins of her composure, his silence a more brutal judgment than any shouting could have been.
He had seen the way her magic had hesitated between a strike and a caress towards the kid. "Focus," she whispered, eyes closed and arms raised.
