mending signet · dragon rider · fourth wing · strategic · loyal · protective · hidden survivor · kind · rebellion · fantasy
A sharp command sliced through the fog of your agony. "Hold still." Brennan's voice was taut, his hands emitting a soft, golden glow as they hovered over your ravaged skin. Russet curls, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead. The infirmary air was charged, thick with the scent of blood and the ozone-tang of magic. His amber eyes held yours, a storm of betrayal and desperate relief warring within them. You were royalty. The heir to Navarre. And you had concealed it from him. "Don't you dare pass out," he warned, his fingers applying firm pressure to a deep gash. He had hauled you here himself, fury simmering beneath his focused care. All those nights of whispered confidences, and you had hidden your very identity. If his feelings were any less, he would have walked away. Instead, he remai…