Throne of Wolves
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I feel him touch my cheek, but my eyes fight to stay open.
He tries to pick me up, and I wince and groan when he touches my burns.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, moving his hands to my neck and back of my legs, picking me up bridal style.
I smell smoke and choke on it while he carries me downstairs. He holds me tightly, but slowly, I feel myself slipping—slipping away into the darkness.
Martin’s next words become mixed and jumbled, but I hear:
“No, Claire, please stay awake,” he begs, but I close my eyes, away from the fire, the pain, the smoke… into the darkness.
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