Kael rarely left Rayan's side now.
He sat by the bed, long fingers wrapped around Rayan's pale hand, gaze sharp even as his thumb caressed tenderly. His Omega drifted in and out of fever dreams, fragile breaths quick, lips parting as if to call for him even in sleep.
But Kael's eyes weren't only on Rayan.
They flicked, often, to Senna.
She hovered at the edges of the room—helpful, unassuming, always arriving with warm broth or cooling towels. To anyone else, her devotion would have seemed angelic. To Kael, it was beginning to stink of intent.
He had allowed her in because she'd once been a shadow in his past, a harmless ghost. But ghosts didn't smile so sweetly while whispering poison.
When the fever broke briefly, Rayan's mind swam.
Kael was beside him, his hand firm and steady. His eyes, sharp enough to cut steel, softened when they met his.
"Drink," Kael coaxed, raising the cup to his lips.
The tea was bitter but warm. Rayan drank obediently.
