Alaric carefully laid Salviana onto the cushions in their dimly lit chambers. He took two steadying breaths, his gaze sharpening as the faint, metallic scent of her blood began to fill the air.
Every instinct within him flared, each inhale torturous as he fought to keep himself composed. She kept her head bowed, her expression clouded with shame.
Removing his gloves with slow precision, he lowered himself onto one knee before her. He stretched his hand toward her, his voice slipping out rough and strained, "Your hand."
Salviana blinked, momentarily lost, before hesitantly extending her palm. As he held it, his eyes flickered over her hand, taking in the thin scratches streaked with fresh blood, each wound stark against her soft skin.
His brow furrowed, and he looked at her as though the marks had carved through her very bones.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice softened now, his gaze meeting her glassy, pained eyes.
