"Rowan…what did you do to yourself? Look at your face…and your poor, beautiful skin." The familiar voice came from somewhere distant, yet close, melting into him like warm honey.
He wanted to turn toward the sound that he loved so much, but he couldn't move. The shadows of death and poison held him down and wouldn't let go.
A hand slid under Rowan's shoulders, and he felt himself being lifted by gentle fingers before his head came to rest on something firm. The lower half of his body stretched out like a corpse ready for burial, but his shoulders were supported by a heat that he knew belonged to Wren.
Rowan didn't need to see or move to recognize the man who held him. He didn't need a honeyed voice to tell him whose fingers dusted over his cheeks and eyelids.
He would know Wren's touch anywhere.
Rowan remembered now how he'd lost consciousness, but he had no idea where the woods had deposited him or how Wren had found him.
