Lyra quickly composed herself, squaring her shoulders as she stood her ground. Her eyes locked onto Rowan's, unwavering and full of fire.
"That night—you weren't hurt," she signed sharply. "Then whose blood was all over you?"
The question lingered in the air between them, heavy and demanding. For days, she had been haunted by the image—his bloodied clothes, the distant look in his eyes. She had feared the worst, only to later discover through Cassian that she might've misunderstood it all.
Rowan raised a brow, a flicker of amusement tugging at his lips as he took in her furrowed brows and pursed lips.
"So you ran all the way here just to interrogate me?" he mused. "I must say, I'm flattered by your effort. I suppose I owe you an answer, then."
Lyra's frown deepened, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She hated how calm he looked—how effortlessly he teased her when she was burning with frustration. Couldn't he see how serious this was for her?
