The fire had long been burned out with its warmth on the stone hearth and the bitter tang of smoke in the linens.
Marcella lay on her side, knees tucked halfway to her chest. One hand rested at her lower abdomen, the other tangled in the sheets near her ribs. The sheets clung to her hips, warm where they touched skin, but not warm enough to soothe the soreness that had bloomed deep in her bones.
Berith laid beside her.
Quiet. Asleep or pretending well enough that it didn't matter. He breathed like a man unburdened, the slow rise and fall of his chest almost meditative. His face tilted toward the ceiling, one arm draped loosely above his head.
He looked... peaceful and she hated that.
But what she hated more was how she didn't feel the same.
Marcella blinked up at the ceiling. Her eyes burned from the sting of held-back tears gathering behind her eyes. It wasn't the pain, not really.
