His arms were an anchor in the storm of her relief. For a single, breathless moment, Isadora allowed herself to feel the solid, impossible reality of him. He was here. Bruised, bleeding, but here. He had come for her. The mad, desperate hope she had clung to in the darkness had not been a lie.
He said nothing, his arms a tight, possessive band around her, his face buried in her hair. She could feel the unnatural cold of him seeping through her thin tunic, a strange, grounding comfort. He smelled of winter, and blood, and the cold, clean scent of a promise kept.
But the moment was a fragile, beautiful thing, and it was shattered by Clara's voice, tight with a terror that cut through Isadora's joy like a shard of glass.
"You have to go," Clara said, her voice a desperate, frantic whisper. She pulled at Isadora's arm, trying to break Caelan's hold. "Both of you. Now. Before he wakes up."
