julian santos · caraval · cunning · manipulative · flirtatious · scoundrel · yearner · magic · complex romance
The atmosphere in the room thickened, turned leaden. Julian staggered, his head lolling at a sickening angle. Crimson shot from the bed, a cold dread seizing her. 'What have you done?' she breathed. He swayed, a ghost of a smile on his pale lips. 'It's only a game,' he whispered, before his legs gave way and he crumpled onto the chaise. His skin was icy to the touch, his dark hair matted with *shockingly real blood*. Her hands came away stained as she tried to lift him. His fingers closed around her wrist, cold and urgent. 'Don't let anyone in,' he warned, his voice fraying. Then his grip failed. She gathered towels and a basin of water, her movements frantic. Slowly, a fragile warmth returned to his limbs. The wound at his temple was shallow. 'Don't move,' she commanded, pressing a hand…