Page 152 of Severed Heir

He roared and lifted his hand for one final strike, but a second blast of fire collided with his first. The powers clashed midair, a burst of heat and light exploding between us.

Hadrian stepped forward, arm still raised, his voice like tempered steel. “Enough. The duel is over. You’ve both taken it too far.”

Caius staggered upright, brushing soot from his shoulder. “I won that battle. Everyone saw it.”

But Archer was already beside me. His jaw was tight, and when he spoke, his voice was raw with fury. “You could have been killed. He meant to kill you.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, even as my limbs trembled and fire clawed through every nerve ending. I didn’t even believe that lie.

“You’re not.” He cupped my jaw, helping me up. “You’re bleeding.”

“I had him,” I whispered. But the words tasted hollow, even to me.

“You nearly passed out.”

I leaned into him. “Caius is stronger. Why?”

“Because he’s six years older,” Archer said, thumb brushing the torn edge of my dress like he didn’t realize he was doing it. “He’s trained, and he’s mastered his quell.”

Across the courtyard, Caius lifted his arms toward the crowd. “Anyone else care to lose?”

Archer’s gaze darkened. “I’ve never seen a Serpent interrupt a duel before. That was weird.”

“I want to fight him again,” I hissed. “I need to win.”

“No,” Archer said, not waiting for me to argue. He stepped forward and swept me into his arms, right there in front of a dozen Serpents.

“Archer,” I hissed under my breath. “You’re making it very clear there’s something between us.”

“And when I carry you into a single hostel bed, it’ll be even clearer.”

“Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

“Not when you show up dressed like chaos,” he murmured, his grip tightening around me, “and bleeding in my arms.”

I tried to sit up, but he wouldn’t let me. “I can portal us tonight—”

“No,” he cut in, carrying me across Wrathi’s courtyard. “We’ll stay at a Serpent hostel. That fight drained you.”

“And yet here I am,” I said, a faint smirk tugging at my lips, “still radiant in blood and lace. Honestly, I could go again.”

He huffed a laugh, brushing my hair gently from my face. “You’re impossible.”

He carried me past lilac-drenched lampposts and down winding cobblestone paths, the air thick with the scent of salt and the distant roar of the ocean. I rested against him, cradled in his arms—the safest place I’d been in a long time.

“Sleep, Severyn,” he whispered. “Let the waves carry you.”

I didn’t argue. I was just... grateful. Grateful to be here, to be held, pressed close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

A cold breeze slipped through the torn edges of my gown as he stepped into the cabin. The room was small, the kind meant for survival, not comfort. A narrow bed pressed against the far wall, a shower stall tucked in the corner. He didn’t speak. He simply turned on the tap, steam beginning to rise, his other arm still wrapped around me like letting go might undo everything that held me together.

He eased the gown over my head, and the air stung as it kissed every bruise, every raw cut. When he guided me beneath the stream of warm water, my skin pulsed with pain, tender and sharp all at once.

Then his hands found me again, slow, steady, reverent. He dipped a cloth into the water and began to clean the blood from my ribs, careful not to press too hard.

I closed my eyes and let myself feel it all. The ache. The heat. The quiet safety of being seen and still held.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

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