Draven's thumb smoothed over the edge of the parchment, his expression unreadable as ink smeared faintly across his skin. He did not speak at once. Instead, he let the silence stretch, letting the weight of what she had done settle between them like a blade laid flat across her throat.
Luna's wrists ached under his grip, but she did not pull away. There was no point. His hold was careful, controlled, never enough to bruise, but enough to make escape impossible. Enough to make her stand still. That, more than any threat, told her how well he knew her limits.
"You should not have run," he said at last, voice low enough that it seemed meant only for her. "It makes a man wonder what you are hiding."
"I w-was not hi,ding," Luna said quickly, too quickly, and hated herself for it. She bit her tongue, her eyes refusing to meet Draven's, whose gaze never left her. "I was—"
