“Regardless… Myrielle didn’t want to remain in the healer-sanctum. She’ll stay here for a few days—until her injury recovers.”
“Do as you wish,” I whispered, turning back to the simmering pot. I refused to dwell on why Myrielle had abandoned her mansion full of servants just to be coddled by him.
My words made him stiffen. His brows pinched and he kept watching me, as though trying to decode what had changed.
Then Myrielle’s voice—soft as dew—broke the silence.
“Draven… I’m a little hungry. Lunessa’s broth smells wonderful. Do you think… I might have a taste?”
He immediately turned. “Lunessa, serve her a bowl. She ensured the healers tended to your father today. She wanted to make amends.”
Make amends?
The very wolf who delayed his ritual until he nearly ended up lame—now wanted to “make amends for it” by sipping my broth?
But refusing her would endanger my father.
So I lowered my head and ladled the broth.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Myrielle murmured, feigning distress. “This must be for Elder Silverhaze. I’ve caused so many troubles—I shouldn’t take a drop…”
“It’s fine,” Draven said quickly, soothing. “Lunessa doesn’t blame you. Right, Lunessa?”
His sharp gaze pinned me like a command.