Selara didn't move when the camp finally quieted. The distant sounds of Fenryk's wolves shifting positions faded into the background, replaced by the softer noises of breath, fabric, and the crackle of dying embers. Draven sat where he was, back against the fallen stone, allowing her weight to rest against him. His arm remained at her waist, not possessive, not hesitant simply there, solid and warm.
The closeness felt dangerous in a different way than battle ever had.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I know." She didn't lift her head. "I can't stop it yet."
His fingers pressed more firmly at her side, thumb brushing slow circles as if reminding her she was real, that the ground beneath them hadn't vanished. The touch steadied her more than she wanted to admit.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
