//CLARA//
The iron stove hissed and snapped, devouring another piece of wet wood. Outside, winter sleet lashed the glass. Inside, the air was thick with cheap lye soap and the sharp bite of antiseptic left behind by the innkeeper's wife.
I remained frozen on the edge of the sagging mattress, right where he had left me after that punishing, rough kiss.
Casimir's posture was stiff, his broad chest bare under the flickering amber glow of a single tallow candle. The white linen bandages wrapped tightly around his midsection were already seeping a tiny, dark blossom of red where the bullet had grazed his ribs.
My mind was still reeling. Just an hour ago, I'd watched him break a man's kneecap like it was nothing. Just an hour ago, I'd seen the cold, empty satisfaction in his eyes as Bartholomew's leg caved inward at an impossible angle.
